


Motives

by manic_intent



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Dragon Age kink meme: "AU Hawke is so pretty that when Anders sees him near The Blooming Rose he mistakes him for a prostitute. This takes place the year after Hawke comes to Kirkwall. Rogueish rogue!Hawke doesn't move to hightown or become champion. (Hawke's family might go to live in Hightown though while Hawke continues to do shady, exciting things) Justice isn't inside Anders."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motives

[A/N: I don't know what your definition of pretty is, OP, but m!Hawke's default face (and f!Hawke, admittedly) has grown on me so much that I can't mentally imagine him as anything else. :( But I love it.

I guess this is another Sarcasm!Hawke.]

I.

“So how did it go?” Athenril asked, as Hawke handed over the sandalwood box.

“The usual.”

“Hawke, with you, 'the usual' can be anything from 'murdered a score of Carta thugs' to 'kissed a girl and cut her purse',” the smuggler said dryly, as one of her elves took the box from her hands, heading briskly away. Probably to the bolthole in the Docks, prior to shipping.

Hawke grinned impishly. The 'borrowed' vest, jacket and breeches were colorful and tight-fitting, and he rather missed his usual armor and blades, but they'd well served their purpose. “Pretended to be some lord or other's errant brother, charmed some servants, snuck into the master bedroom, picked up the box, went down the ivy. Easy as you please.”

“You're a real professional, Hawke,” Athenril looked amused as she tossed him his payment. “I'm glad that you decided to come in as a partner in the business rather than hare off on that Deep Roads expedition that didn't get anywhere. How's your family coming along?”

“Good. A few more decent 'liberations' and I should be able to get us our own place. Won't be Hightown, but preferably not a place where I have to stare down rats before I can use the washbasin.”

Athenril chuckled. “I'll drink to that. Come by tomorrow. Word on the vine is that a sylvanwood shipment's just about right to fall straight into our hands.”

Hawke offered her a playful salute, and pocketed the coins, circling away. Choosing to keep working for Athenril was slowly paying off. The operation was growing steadily larger, the risks and payoffs greater – just as he liked it. It didn't quite have the same romantic possibilities as entering the Deep Roads and striking gold, but it was probably more realistic – even Bethany had accepted that by now.

Lost in thought, he nearly walked straight into someone who stepped into his path. “Uh... good day,” the stranger said awkwardly, in a whisper. “Ah... how much do you charge?”

Hawke blinked at the stranger. Tall, handsome and blonde, with nervous, if kind warm brown eyes, the effect was somewhat spoiled by how remarkably scruffy the stranger had managed to seem; several black and gray birds appeared to have exploded over his shoulders, and his green half-jacket, long gray coat, scarf and breeches were woefully mismatched. Combined with the staff that the stranger was wielding-

“You're a mage.”

“What? I mean... why would you think that?”

Hawke fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Never you mind. If you're asking about my charge, it depends. I don't do anything involving animals or children.”

The mage looked scandalised. “I didn't say anything about animals or children! Do people actually... do things... with those? Andraste's _knickers_ ,” he muttered, under his breath. “I... actually I think this is probably a bad idea. Forget it.”

“You don't know whether it's a bad idea until you ask,” Hawke smiled as winningly as he could. Granted, he didn't know how much coin a mage would have, let alone one that was also fairly clearly a particularly scruffy breed of apostate, but running with Athenril and her smuggler outfit had taught Hawke not to judge by first appearances.

The mage stared at him, flushing slightly, then he averted his eyes, mumbling quickly, “How much for one night?”

Hawke stared at him blankly. “One night where?”

“You mean the room counts into it as well?” The mage looked surprised – and a little disappointed. “At the Blooming Rose? I always thought that it was, ah, part of the deal. It was, in the Pearl.”

It took Hawke a long moment to parse the mage's words, then he had to grit his teeth to keep from bursting out laughing. Unfortunately, his amusement must have shown – the mage's flush deepened, if rather becomingly. “Forget I asked, then. I probably can't afford you.”

Oh, why the hell not. A little coin for a decent tumble wouldn't go amiss, and it wasn't as though his sense of self-esteem was sensitive enough nowadays to be injured by being propositioned by a handsome stranger under a misunderstanding. “I don't have any other clients right now,” Hawke smiled, reaching forward to slide his right hand teasingly over a narrow hip to the small of the mage's back. “Let's have some fun, then I'll let you decide how much you want to pay me, handsome. Just this once.”

The mage looked doubtful, but visibly caved after a moment's hesitation. “That doesn't sound like good business.”

“You'll be surprised.” Thankfully, Athenril seemed occupied; the smuggler didn't look up as he led the mage into the Blooming Rose. Careful to keep his body between the Madam and the mage, he quietly paid for a room and took the keys without the mage noticing. It wasn't late enough yet in the evening for the brothel to be crowded, though the first regulars of the day were already trickling in, thankfully Hawke didn't see any of his business associates – or worse, his uncle.

Once in the room, the mage seemed to recover some confidence, reaching forward once the door was locked to pull Hawke into a kiss that was first awkward, then heady, when Hawke walked them back until he had the mage pressed up against a luridly painted wall, growling as he deepened the kiss, claiming his mouth until the mage was writhing and gasping against him, the hot curve of his arousal pushing insistently against Hawke's thigh.

“What's your name?” Hawke purred breathlessly into the mage's ear.

“Ah...” There was hesitation there, and Hawke chuckled roughly.

“Make something up on the spot if you want. Or we could stick with 'Apostate Exhibit A', if you prefer.”

The mage stiffened at that, then his breath shook into a low gasp when Hawke nibbled at his ear, then tongued the shell of it lazily. “Anders. My name is Anders.”

“That wasn't so difficult, was it?” Hawke smiled, watching Anders' eyes grow dark and wide as he sank down on his knees. His fingers made quick work of belt buckles and laces, and thankfully, the mage smelled sharp and masculine and clean. It took only a few strokes to bring thickening flesh to arousal, and Hawke grinned as Anders sucked in a sharp, thin breath. “Do you want me to take the edge off for you?”

Anders nodded tightly, as though he couldn't trust himself to speak, but he let out a long, low groan when Hawke bent his head to his task.

II.

“Have you heard of the underground highway?” Athenril began, once Hawke sauntered into their Docks office close to one of the smuggling runs.

“I gather you're not using an euphemism for the sewers. At least, I hope not,” Hawke said dryly. “The _last_ time I had to have anything to do with the sewers, I wasn't allowed back into the house until I found some place to wash off the smell. Repeatedly.”

“Close, but not entirely. There are some abandoned mining tunnels in Darktown. You know the place.”

“Infested with Carta, Coterie, giant spiders, the undead, and the occasional crazed bloodmage. Charming place.”

“Yeah. We're going to be carving a route out through it. The pay's good.” Athenril unrolled an old vellum map on her desk, pinning it down with throwing knives. “This part here,” she pointed at a route marked red, “It's unclaimed at present. Take a look. Clear out the trash, if any. If it's Carta or Coterie, we don't need the problems, skirt them.”

“We're turning into pest control now?”

“We need a route out for goods, smartass.”

“What happened to the traditional way out via helpful ships and their helpful captains? I like traditional.” Hawke arched an eyebrow.

“That's for goods for which templars can't exercise a right of custody.” Athenril said dismissively. “Ships need time to catch the tide, and the Docks is the first place that the templars search.”

Hawke frowned. “Templars. We're smuggling _apostates_?”

“They pay in good coin or lyrium,” Athenril shrugged. “Problem?”

“The problem I can think of offhand wears heavy plate armor, carry big swords, big shields, and assume short tempers like a badge of honor. Oh yes, and it's not like they can't track apostates underground, either.”

“I didn't think you'd chicken out at a few templars, Hawke.” Athenril sounded unimpressed. “As to the phylacteries, I've been told that it isn't our problem.”

Hawke raised his palms. “It's not a few templars I'm concerned about, it's an entire Order of them sitting pretty and shiny in the Gallows, just waiting for the word to shell out divine vengeance on the unsuspecting.”

“You want to back out, say the damned word.”

Hawke glanced down at the map thoughtfully. “How much coin are we talking about here?”

Athenril told him.

“Ah. And that's on a regular basis?”

“That's what I've been told.”

“And you're certain that they have the coin?”

“We have a considerable advance that was paid up front. There was, however, a condition.”

“I knew there was a catch. I have to do it one handed? Sing subversive songs? Distribute pamplets?'

“You're going to have to babysit one of them on your way.” Athenril said, with a faint smirk. “I know you like to work alone or pick your party, but those were their conditions. Just to ensure that we don't make off with their sovereigns. Clear the route, impress your tourist, and then we'll reap the profits.”

Hawke sighed. “Please tell me that the tourist apostate is a pretty young thing.”

“Sorry, Hawke. _He'll_ be meeting you at this location tonight.” Athenril stabbed her finger at a marked entrance in Darktown. “Don't be late. And for the love of the Maker, don't bring your usual bloody circus of crazy friends. This is a covert operation.”

III.

“Garrett?” Anders blinked at him, surprised, when Hawke arrived five minutes early at the marked place. “Darktown isn't a good place for the unwary.”

“It's generally not a good place to bring up your kids,” Hawke agreed amiably. “And besides, I'm meeting someone.”

“One of your... clients?” Anders' tentative smile froze, replaced by a pinched expression that Hawke couldn't decipher. “Strange place for an assignment, isn't it?”

“I'm flexible,” Hawke said, with a lazy smile and a slow wink that made Anders flush slightly and avert his eyes. “What are you here for?”

“I'm meeting someone. As well.”

“Well, what a coincidence.” Hawke drawled, mindful however of Athenril's caution to be 'covert'. “The Maker operates in strange ways.”

Anders nodded, but despite the promising start, didn't seem willing to chat, instead staring at his feet and shifting his weight uncomfortably. Hawke perched on a crate, watching what little light filtered through the slats on the east end of Darktown to his right. Perhaps Anders would leave if the silence stretched too long.

Finally, however, the mage mumbled, “Do you use another moniker at the Blooming Rose? I tried to... to look you up on another week, and the Madam didn't know a 'Garrett' in her employ.”

Oh. Hawke hadn't given the misunderstanding much further thought, due to the sylvanwood convoy and all its myriad elf assassin complements that had caused him to be briefly bedridden with injuries. While he was thinking of a way to explain, however, Anders continued, hastily, “I mean, I don't mind if you don't wish to tell me. I didn't have that much coin – I should have told you from the start. I was trying to find you to... to...” At Hawke's broad grin, Anders' flush deepened, and his words trailed off.

“Anders. Don't worry. I had a good time.”

“How much is your client paying you?” Anders asked impulsively. “Just so that I'll... Just out of curiosity.”

“Mm.” Hawke made a quick mental calculation from Athenril's figure. “I have an advance of approximately five sovereigns.”

“Five _sovereigns_?” Anders repeated, incredulous. “Why, that's... well, I suppose it was only to be expected,” he added, with a forced laugh, looking away and taking a step back. “I have to go. Perhaps another time?”

“Anytime,” Hawke smiled winningly, and Anders fled.

Strange man.

A couple of wasted hours later, Hawke gave the entire business up as a dud deal and returned to the Docks. “The contact was a no show,” Hawke told Athenril, once he walked back into their office.

“Twelve sovereigns is an expensive practical joke.” Athenril pursed her lips. “I'll speak to my contacts.”

“Get a name, this time.”

III.

“ _You're_ working for Athenril!” Anders hissed, when Hawke approached. The mage looked furious; Hawke could smell oncoming storms and feel the static of Anders' arcane energy. “And all this while I thought...! You must have thought I was so stupid,” Anders concluded bitterly.

“You could have said that you were my contact,” Hawke retorted, pointing over his shoulder. “I don't wear armor and blades for fun.”

“I thought maybe your client...” Anders looked embarrassed, scowling. “Do you even truly work at the Rose?”

“No. But it's not everyday that I get so directly propositioned by someone handsome, right on the street,” Hawke grinned, all mischief, and Anders reddened further.

“You could have said _something_!”

“Couldn't think of an immediate reason or method to bring it up without ruining the mood. You had fun, I had fun,” Hawke shrugged, unconcerned. “What's the problem?”

“I...” Anders exhaled loudly and angrily. “Forget it. Let's just find that route.”

Five minutes into a relatively quiet jaunt in the stinking abandoned tunnels, Hawke let out a deep sigh. “All right, I apologize. If it helps, I was bloody stupid as well. There couldn't have been that many apostates loitering about in clear sight in Darktown. For some reason, I didn't think that the contact would be you.”

“And why not?” Anders' tone was carefully cool.

“I was a little distracted,” Hawke admitted easily. “Like I said, I had a good time. And I thought that you were just picking up another piece of ass.”

Anders groaned, and muttered something darkly under his breath. “I don't make a habit of engaging prostitutes!”

“Could have fooled me there.”

The mage scowled at him. “You were _different_. I've seen you before, at Hightown, outside the Rose – I never stayed for long in case you noticed, so I didn't realize that you were there to speak with _Athenril_.”

“And the armor wasn't a blinding clue?”

“I wasn't really looking at the armor,” Anders mumbled, and glowered at Hawke when he chuckled out loud. “Besides, some of the... employees... at the Rose also wear costume armor, I've seen them coming and going with their clients. And I'm glad that _one_ of us finds this amusing.”

“Oh no, it's very flattering.”

“That I mistook you for a prostitute?”

Hawke smirked. “Well, when you put it that way, perhaps not exactly-” He paused, tilting his head at a faint scuff of sound. “Wait here.”

“What? Why?”

“Just listen, will you? Your mage underground is paying us for a reason, after all.”

“Coin does seem to be an all-consuming motivation for you.”

“Try supporting unemployed family members as a Fereldan refugee,” Hawke shot back, albeit with a grin, but Anders' scowl faltered.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean-”

“You take everything _so_ seriously. It's a terrible habit,” Hawke cut in, amused. “Stay here.”

He didn't wait to see if Anders complied, sneaking soft footed up a disused stairway, blades drawn. The scuttling sound grew louder as he pulled himself silently up onto an old corridor, the high, dark ceiling webbed with thick strands of white cobwebs. Hawke pulled a face. He _hated_ spiders. Careful to avoid the telling, translucent strands of webbing streaked across the ground that would serve as a warning bell to any spiders lurking up above, Hawke padded carefully across the corridor, trying to see if it was clear through. He'd have to come back with Bethany and Varric to clear out the infestation-

The loud, telling creak of the stairway behind him made him wince. Anders had followed him, and was looking around, aghast. “Garrett, come back here!”

Hawke made frantic gestures indicating that Anders should _shut the hell up_ , but it was too late. The scuttling sound high above turned into a whispering chitter, and Hawke dived quickly out of the way as a spider twice as big as his dog dropped down from the ceiling, its multiple, beady eyes gleaming at him in the dull light reflected from the torches at the walkway below. Another spider dropped down, between him and Anders, scuttling forward, only to abruptly freeze in place as a circular green glyph traced itself in glowing energy under its eight legs.

Rolling to his feet, Hawke took a deep breath and threw a smoke bomb, obscuring himself from sight even as he leaped onto the first spider's back. It shrieked, scuttling to the side, and he missed his stab at its bulbous head, tearing a long gash in its belly instead. Unable to keep his footing, Hawke fell heavily, with a harsh oath, and had to roll hastily as hooked feet stabbed down on the cracked floor. Static and the scent of the a storm filled the narrow corridor, and a flash of light and the sudden stench of seared flesh distracted the giant spider long enough for Hawke to scramble back up and bury both his blades in two of the spider's largest eyes. It shrieked again, wrenching away, and scuttling in a drunken semicircle before collapsing.

Hastily, Hawke jerked out the blades, and looked up. Anders had encased himself in some sort of barrier, his legs braced and one palm upraised before him, while the other spider chittered and struck at the sphere with its legs.

Silently, Hawke stepped behind it and ripped open its belly, sidestepping as it swung around in an agony-laced panic, evading its lunge, and tearing another long gash across its legs. Ice abruptly formed, freezing the spider as it whirled around to face him, and without hesitation, Hawke rammed the tip of his right dagger between the spider's frozen head and the joint with its body, severing it.

Grimacing as he wiped his blades clean on the carcasses, Hawke heard Anders take in a shaky breath. “Are you all right?”

“I told you to stay where you were.”

“You were walking straight into a spider pit!”

“I knew what I was doing.” Hawke edged his way back to Anders, and grabbed the mage's wrist when sparks of flame formed in his palm. “What are _you_ doing?”

“Getting rid of the webs!”

“Hence advertising 'Look, suspicious people came this way!' to any curious templar onlookers, I suppose?”

“And if there are other spiders?”

“If there were other spiders, we'll be dead.” Hawke said calmly. “Probably.”

Anders turned visibly pale. “Perhaps we should return.”

“Return if you want, or sit here and wait for me. I'm going to do what I was paid for.” Hawke retorted, then he smirked when Anders looked set to argue. “Besides, giant spiders, undead and rotting sewage? This is more interesting than the usual work that Athenril sends me on. There're only so many nobles that you can stiff out of relics before it becomes repetitive, believe me.”

“You're insane.” Anders said slowly, wide-eyed, if with a faint, grudging note of respect. “I don't have any other explanation for it. And the way you killed those spiders... you're well worth every sovereign that Marthana gathered for this project.”

“Why, thank you. It's good to know that I don't have to change my day job,” Hawke was never able to turn down a chance to preen. Bethany once told him that he had an ego problem, but Hawke just thought of it as being honest with himself.

“Well, even if you did,” Anders said wryly, “I could well believe that you were worth five sovereigns. Not,” he added hastily, “That I really mean that you should be... I mean, that you're really a-”

“That's the nicest thing anyone has said to me,” Hawke said dryly, with a lopsided grin that sparked a startled laugh from the mage.

“Maker, I hope not.”

“We still have three quarters of the route to go,” Hawke said, thinking back on memory. “Try to listen to me this time instead of staring at my legs, will you? I know it'd be difficult, but try your best.”

“The more I get to know you, the more impossible I think you are,” Anders said, though he smiled faintly.

Thankfully, save for a small cadre of lyrium smugglers at the exit which, startled, were quickly dispatched, the rest of the way was fairly restful. Hawke felt vaguely disappointed when they emerged out under the night sky on what looked like a stretch of the Wounded Coast. Anders was clearly a fairly competent mage, and Hawke wouldn't have minded watching more of the light show.

Scratching Athenril's sigil into a stone at the lip of the exit of the cave, Hawke said, “So what do you apostate mages normally do all day? I've always wondered.”

“We summon demons and practice forbidden spells,” Anders said, with a touch of acid. “What do you think we do? We cower in bolt holes in the city, afraid that the templars would find us.”

“Seriously? You must be an expert at cowering by now, then.”

“You're truly...” Anders cut himself off, with a sigh. “I run a healer's clinic for the poor in Darktown. So far, luck and my patients have managed to keep the templars away.”

“Well, have at it then.” Hawke gestured at the wide sea before them. “Freedom awaits. And possibly a few bandits, more undead and rogue Qunari.”

“I'm fortunate. My phylactery was destroyed. Besides, I'm tired of running,” Anders said quietly. “I have a purpose here. Helping other mages who want to leave, and my patients. Fereldans – and other Kirkwall poor – have no recourse to potions or healers. Far too many die simply from neglect. And I teach. Should more mages learn healing magic and spend their time helping others, I think it would help reduce the general public's fear of us. The Warden-Commander proved this. Not every mage is possessed, or a blood mage.”

“Very noble. You're the sort of person who ends up dying at the end of any self-respecting epic,” Hawke told him, sheathing his dagger as he finished the sigil. “We'll retrace our steps and get back to the Docks before Athenril decides that we're dead and takes my share of the advance.”

Anders let out a wry laugh. “It's good to have... simple goals.”

“Simple is good. Especially when it's shiny, yellow, and legal tender.”

IV.

The 'clinic' was really a disused storage space in the arse end of Darktown, cordoned off by worn cloth into what looked like a waiting room, a consultation room, a desk, shelving and boxes. It was full, even at the late hour, and thin, careworn women with crying children seemed to be the main flavor of the day.

Somewhat to his surprise – and annoyance – Bethany trotted out of the clinic once he ascended the stairs. “Big brother. What are you doing here? Are you sick?”

“I was going to ask you the same question.”

“Oh. I asked Lirene if she needed some help, and she said that she had her hands full, but the Fereldan healer in Darktown could use my aid more. I've been learning healing spells, and Anders – the healer – has said that I really have the knack for it,” Bethany said, beaming with pride.

Hawke snarled. “That's _it_.”

Bethany quickly stepped in his way, evidently having a wide sense of trouble where her brother was involved. “What? What's wrong?”

“I don't care if he wants to advertise his presence to the templars,” Hawke growled, thin-lipped, “Or if he's going to teach other apostates his brand of crazy, but if he's sucked you into his bloody ideas, I'm going to break his nose.”

“ _Big brother_!” Bethany grabbed his arm quickly, shocked. “How could you say that? He's helping people! I want to help people. I never thought that my magic could be used to heal.”

“Very helpful, up until you get dragged off to the Circle!” Hawke hissed, with a quick glance around them to ensure that no one save the sickly were in listening distance. “You took a risk coming down here by yourself!”

“I was good. Avoided side streets, and I took Leman,” Bethany pointed. The mabari hound barked, wagging its stubby tail, and went back to snuffling at a pair of giggling little girls and obeying their laughing commands. Sell out. “He would have chewed on any big, bad templars who jumped me. Calm down, big brother. I can take care of myself. I don't want you to spend the rest of your life worrying about me.”

“Then you'll stop this nonsense?”

“It's not _nonsense_ ,” Bethany set her chin, glaring at him. “It's doing what's right. Besides, Anders reminds me of Father.”

Hawke let out a deep sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank _you_ for ruining a perfectly good memory.”

“A good memory...? Oh no. You did _not_ ,” Bethany said, wide-eyed. “You _slept_ with Anders?”

“I don't think the rest of Darktown heard you when you said that.”

“I can't _believe_ you,” Bethany, however, lowered her tone into a hiss. “How did you even...?”

“ _He_ was the one who propositioned me, thinking that I was working at the Blooming Rose,” Hawke said defensively.

“And you just 'played along', did you,” Bethany said, unimpressed. “I bet you even took his money. You did. You took his _money_. Brother, you are _such_ a... a... _wretch_! Give me that!”

“Uh...” Anders cleared his throat as Hawke was busy holding his purse out of Bethany's grasp, and distracted, his sister triumphantly snatched it from his hands, took a sovereign from it, and pushed it into Anders' hands.

“There. All fixed.”

Shocked, Hawke protested, “I certainly did _not_ get anything _near_ a sovereign. Give that back!”

“With interest.” Bethany trod heavily on his foot, showing that she could be all grown up, a full apostate, and still be childish. “And if you steal it back, I'm... I'm going to Aveline, and I'll tell her what you did.”

“Oh, that scares me,” Hawke drawled. “What is she going to do, lecture me about morality? Scowl at me until her face turns purple? Freckle at me?”

“Fine. Then I'll tell Mother.”

Hawke grimaced. “Cheat.”

“Slut,” Bethany retorted, though she grinned when she said it and returned his purse, leaned up, and pressed a quick peck on his cheek. “I'm going back to my work. Tell Mother not to worry, if that's why you're here.”

Anders wordlessly handed out the coin when Bethany stalked back into his clinic, but Hawke sighed and shook his head. “Don't bother. She'll find out. Use it to buy some potions or bandages or, Maker, I don't know, decent clothes that don't advertise your status.”

“Bethany is your sister?”

“Younger sister.”

Anders nodded warily, and looked as though he was casting about for the most diplomatic response. “She's very determined.”

“I'm still going to break your nose,” Hawke told Anders flatly. “I'm just trying to think of a way to do it without Bethany knowing.”

“You can't protect her forever.” Anders folded his arms. “She hasn't even been taught anything but the simplest spells. I can teach her how to defend herself. A basic Circle education on avoiding demons and navigating the Fade. Without it, she'll be a danger to herself.”

“I've heard that before. Usually from people in full armor, red cloaks and big swords.”

“Did you just compare me to the _templars_?” Anders growled, incredulous. “I swear, if we weren't in full sight of my clinic, I'll-”

“You'll what, set me on fire? Hit me with lightning? Turn me into ice? Definitely good for the 'harmless apostate healer' image.”

Anders took a deep breath, if with visible effort. “I don't want to argue with you. Why did you come?”

“There's another run tonight, I finished my earlier commitment, my diamondback friends are still drunk into a stupor, so I thought I'd come by Darktown early and look you up.”

“Oh.” Anders looked confused. “Why? Are you ill?”

“I _was_ going to see if you wanted to have some fun before we had to work,” Hawke confessed, “But now I think I'll just be an absolute pest until you leave my sister alone.”

“'Some fun'?” Anders repeated blankly, then he reddened when Hawke arched an eyebrow. “Oh. _Oh_. I never thought that you'd still be interested, I mean, it seemed like just a once off... thing.”

“I meant a bit of fun, of the no-strings-attached sort, not a marriage proposal,” Hawke clarified dryly, and the pinched look crept into Anders' expression and set up camp.

“I'm busy with the clinic during its opening hours,” he said brusquely, turning away. “If you want to sit in, be my guest. But I don't intend to leave for the run until I've finished my rounds.”

Huh. That was a very sudden change of mood. Slightly puzzled, Hawke followed Anders into the clinic, then turned to go retrieve his dog before it went soft and cuddly under the hands of little girls, only to be elbowed sharply in the ribs by Bethany as she glided past balancing a basin of washed cloth.

“You're horrible, Big Brother,” she hissed into his ear, and stalked off to attend to an elf woman with bandages wrapped up her left wrist. Shaking his head, Hawke sat down beside his dog and fished out a few coppers, quickly mesmerizing the children with a few sleight of hand coin tricks, 'plucking' coppers out of their ears and vanishing it from his palms. At least kids like these could usually be counted upon to be an appreciative audience.

IV.

Unfortunately, Bethany took to the concept of healing with great enthusiasm, despite (or perhaps because of) Hawke's disapproval. Mother didn't help matters by being tentatively encouraging, and the only voice of sanity other than Hawke in the house was, of all people, Gamlen, who had instantly pointed out that Bethany's newfound sense of selflessness was sure to keep her warm during the long, lonely nights in the Gallows.

“Relax,” Athenril said soothingly, when Hawke complained. “It's just a phase. She'll get over it when some sickly children throw up on her a couple of times. Besides, I hear that your friend Varric has been making some arrangements. In any case, templars are pretty visible in Darktown, and they aren't too popular there.”

“Bethany doesn't live in Darktown.” Hawke had been pacing the floor in their Docks office while they waited for the latest dispatches from the mage underground. “What if templars find her on her way to that bloody clinic? I can't always be there.”

“If it'll stop you from making me dizzy, I'll get some of our men to keep an eye out. We've got contacts everywhere in Kirkwall now. They'll make sure no templar gets within sight of her without at least alerting her. Happy?”

Hawke sighed, but he cracked his knuckles. “I suppose that's good enough for now.”

“Andraste save me from possessive siblings,” Athenril muttered. “There's something about your sister that just promptly turns you from a professional, if occasionally annoying operator into a bloodthirsty monster. Pity. Bethany's good, and she doesn't scare. If you didn't get the way you do whenever she even just breaks a nail, I'll have been happy to cut her into the business as well.”

“Don't ever suggest that in front of her,” Hawke scowled, and Athenril was probably saved by the bell in the form of one of her nervous elf couriers, who handed her a package, shot Hawke a sidelong stare, and scuttled away as though afraid of a kick.

“I won't. Relax, Hawke. Your sister's good, but you're far more valuable than she could be.” Athenril unwrapped the package briskly, setting the dispatch aside and counting the coin in the pouch. “And here's our advance. Same deal, Hawke. Goods come into your hands in Darktown, goods leave your hands in the Wounded Coast.”

“I would have been happier with the deal if I didn't have to continue to work with the tourist. Did I tell you he nearly got me killed the first time?”

“Only about a dozen times already,” Athenril said, with a half-shrug. “Don't be such a baby. He's a mage with healing magic, he has to be useful somehow. Just because he's now teaching your sister magic against your wishes – it better not mean that you're going to screw over a promising business deal.”

“I just thought it meant that you might have to look very closely into this surprisingly lucrative 'business deal' with apostates,” Hawke said sullenly. “Where does all the money come from? Why don't they trust us still?”

“Obviously because it will be fairly easy for you to kill them all in the sewers, bury the bodies, and just keep doing that rather than escort the lot of them out through the tunnels? And as to where the money's from, I'm a step ahead of you. Some apostate families are like yours; they'd do anything to get their kids back. In our case, the 'anything' has materialized as coin. There's also a lot of mage sympathisers out there. You'll be surprised.”

“Families will be one of the first places the templars will search.”

“That's none of our business either,” Athenril reminded him. “We're just the middle man. Whether the end result is viable doesn't factor into whether we get paid. And it's not like we don't have other lines of work in case this one falls through.”

“Then I'll trust you to try and think of everything. While I go and try to get myself eaten by spiders or murdered by templars on a daily basis.”

“You do that,” Athenril said agreeably. “Usual time tonight, Hawke. Make it smooth sailing.”

On hindsight, Athenril had definitely jinxed them all when she had said that.

V.

Anders seemed to have settled on being clipped and businesslike whenever they went on the runs. Deep down, if his arm was twisted behind his back, Hawke would have grudgingly admitted that he rather missed trading barbs and trying to find the fastest way to make the mage stutter, but the issue of Bethany had driven a deep wedge between them both which was probably healthy. When he finally managed to pry Bethany away from her latest insane idea, it wouldn't be as difficult if he didn't have to sunder some sort of friendship at the same time.

Thankfully, even if Anders had soured to him personally, the mage had learned to follow orders without question, coming to a sudden stop when Hawke held up a hand, tilting his head. “Stay here,” he murmured. “Wait for my signal.”

Anders nodded slowly, and quietly turned away to herd the group of two frightened elf mage girls and one boy – hardly older than children – back towards the stairway, in case they had to make a quick exit. The girls had their hands curled tight on Leman's scruff, pale and frightened. This was going to be a particularly long trip, paid for in a shard of sylvanwood; the girls had to be escorted all the way to the Dalish encampment in Sundermount.

Crouching, Hawke crept to the faint sound of a voice and the rustling sound of cloth, padding silently forward until he had rounded a corner, closing in to the Wounded Coast cave exit. Someone was in the old lyrium smuggler's cave.

A quick peek revealed an odd scene. A human boy, pretty and fresh-faced, dressed in sumptuously rich clothes; gold embroidery adored an emerald green jacket and soft doeskin breeches that were stained with mud. He knelt before a wounded Qunari which had a feather sticking out from its shoulder, dangerously close to its heart, trying inexpertly to staunch the blood, biting down on his lip as if to hold back tears.

“I'll be a bloody monkey's uncle,” Hawke said dryly, lowering his blades a fraction as he walked forward. “I've thought of maybe three reasons for this and they're all unprintable.”

The boy looked up sharply as the Qunari growled, holding up a small dagger grimly. “No closer! No closer!”

“I don't have business with you, and you don't have business with me. Let me and my friends pass, and we'll never have seen each other. Understand?” Hawke sheathed his blades behind his back, and the tip of the boy's dagger wavered.

Then the boy's eyes had fallen to Hawke's belt. “Is that a potion? Please, let me buy one. I have coin.”

“Make him drink a potion without taking out the arrow and he's going to regret it.” Hawke pointed out, then he exhaled loudly when the boy paled, looking as if he was another step closer to tears. “Oh, Maker's bloody balls.”

Anders appeared quickly when Hawke whistled, and the mages froze when they saw the scene before them. “Hawke?”

“I know. Apparently, this isn't what it looks like.” Hawke said dryly. “Do something about that arrow, and we'll be on our way.”

“You want me to heal a Qunari? We're sort of... occupied at the moment.” Anders said, and the girls squeaked in fear and hid hastily behind Leman when the Qunari in question growled.

“Ashaad isn't a monster,” the boy said hotly. “He's my _friend_.”

“And don't you recognise the boy?” Anders continued, narrowing his eyes. “That's Saemus. The viscount's son.”

“So you really have coin,” Hawke told Saemus, his previously vague interest growing.

Anders groaned. “Is that _really_ all you think about?”

“Unless you have any better ideas? I don't hurt kids, and if we leave him here, he'll die. We take him back to Kirkwall without his friend, and he might tattle to his father. Heal his friend, take his purse, and we'll be on our way.” When Anders seemed about to argue, Hawke added, “Friend in the future Viscount doesn't sound good to you?”

“Damn you, Hawke,” Anders muttered, kneeling down before the Qunari. “I need some cloth or leather for him to bite. The arrow must come out first.”

Somewhat to Hawke's surprise, one of the elf girls shyly offered her scarf, blushing when Saemus thanked her effusively, then turned to Hawke. “Thank you, Messere. I won't forget you.”

“So long as you forget what it looks like we're doing, we're even.” Hawke said blandly.

“It looks like you're escorting some of the Dalish on a tour of the beach,” Saemus replied promptly, straight-faced. “Was there anything else to remember?”

“Good kid.”

“There might be a problem, though,” Saemus winced and looked away quickly at the choked, muffled gasp of pain that Ashaad made when Anders pulled out the arrow with a sharp, seemingly practiced jerk of his wrist. “There are... people looking for me. A company of mercenaries. They shot at Ashaad. Perhaps they intend to kidnap me and hold me for ransom.”

“Lonely viscount's heir, single Qunari bodyguard, and the wide, open Wounded Coast. Why am I not surprised?”

“They... may be from my father,” Saemus admitted, awkwardly. “He does not approve of me spending time with Ashaad.”

Hawke stared at him for a long moment, then at the Qunari, then he closed his eyes briefly. “All right. I didn't want to think what I just thought. Moving along. Any more details?”

“Sorry.” Saemus looked embarrassed. “Once they started shooting at us, Ashaad made us run until he was sure that we had eluded them, then he collapsed in this cave. He's a cartographer for the Qunari. Apparently this cave leads back into Kirkwall.”

“Done,” Anders said, straightening up quickly from Ashaad and backing off. “As long as he doesn't get an infection, he should be fine. Or at least, that's what I would say if he were human. I'm not very sure about Qunari constitutions.”

Ashaad was sitting up, inspecting the scar tissue with thick fingers, then he grunted. “ _Bas saarebas_ walking about without any Arvaarad. In some ways the Arishok is right about you _bas_.”

Anders carefully put himself between Ashaad and the elf children, his staff extended before him warily. “This wasn't one of your better ideas, Hawke.”

“ _Bas saarebas_ happened to save your ass,” Hawke pointedly fingered the hilt of one of his blades, but the qunari seemed unimpressed.

“Accepting death is part of the Qun.”

“Well, your friend must be fun at parties.” Hawke told Saemus, who had hastily placed a relatively small hand on Ashaad's massive shoulder.

“Ashaad, please. The mercenaries are still after us. We must return to Kirkwall. I will see you safe to the Docks. If there are humans murdering Qunari on the Wounded Coast, you must inform the Arishok. Surely that is a greater duty to the Qun.”

Ashaad scowled at them, glancing between them both, then he inclined his head with a grunt, picked up a massive greatsword from the ground, and started away towards the tunnels, ignoring how the elf children huddled more tightly behind Leman and Anders as he passed. Quickly, Saemus pressed a pouch of coin into Hawke's hands, and hurried after his unlikely companion, with a quick wave at them all before he disappeared around the bend.

Six sovereigns. Happy, Hawke pocketed the money. “Well then, where were we?”

“About to venture out into the Wounded Coast and run into some murderous mercenaries?” Anders gestured at the mouth of the cave in exasperation. “Perhaps we should try this again another day.”

“I always do what I'm paid to do.” Hawke disagreed. “Stay here. Let me take a look.”

“This will be different,” Anders said, looking uncomfortable. “A company of mercenaries is far more trouble than some spiders and lyrium smugglers.”

“Don't worry. I already have an idea.”

“I was afraid of that,” Anders muttered. “Be careful, Garrett.”

“So it's not 'Hawke this, Hawke that' any more if it looks like I have a fair chance of getting murdered?” Hawke asked, with a quick, playful grin.

“Don't push it,” Anders warned, though he couldn't quite seem to meet Hawke's eyes when he said it.

VI.

Hawke scouted the Wounded Coast regularly – or read dispatches on it – due to their seemingly semi-permanent gig with the mage underground, and as such, was highly familiar with every route, hidden cove, cave, path and, more importantly, every faction of scoundrel and thug that made the long stretch of dangerous coastline their home.

Prior knowledge, careful evasion of patrolling mercenaries, a little bit of insanity and some constructive climbing meant that he was perched, hidden, on a lip of escarpment that overlooked both the winding trade route and the flat steppes upon which a camp of tal-vashoth had been set up. Put that way, it didn't require genius to see where his plan led.

It didn't take long for one of the mercenary patrols to circle close to the entrance to the steppes, at which point Hawke tossed a combustion grenade into the camp from his place of concealment and quietly slipped away, smirking to himself at the roars of outrage, then, later and fainter, shouts and the clash of steel. Circling back to the cave, careful not to be spotted, he let out an exhalation of relief to note that the mages will still all in place, if a little more obviously nervous than before, Leman wagging its tail as he approached.

“Let's move.”

“What did you do?” Anders murmured, glancing behind his shoulder as Hawke led them out of the cave, heading briskly west. Once they cut upwards into the forested areas and kept off the trade paths, it'd be only about a couple of hours until they reached the forests, where the Dalish presence tended to discourage most human outlaws at night.

“A little misdirection.” Hawke said, as jauntily as he could.

“So it's entirely possible that your plan might backfire, and we'll add angry tal-vashoth to our growing list of enemies?”

“I don't think the tal-vashoth were really in any negotiable frame of mind,” Hawke said, even as Leman began to growl, whirling around, and Hawke turned in time to see a small group of horsemen thundering up the path towards them, reining up once they were at a respectful distance. The leader was a woman, with cold, reptilian eyes set in an expressionless mask, her lips thinned and cold. “Well, well. Smuggling apostates, are we?”

“Actually this is a Circle sanctioned excursion to the Coast, studying blackberry bushes,” Hawke said, even as he quietly eased a throwing knife into his right palm. “Carry on.”

The female mercenary spat on the ground. “Have you seen a boy and a qunari?”

“Qunari don't associate with humans,” Hawke said, with a shrug.

“The boy would have been kidnapped.” The mercenary said irritably. “I'm Ginny, and these are the Winters. We've been engaged by the Viscount to recover his son.”

“Can't help you there, sorry,” Hawke said amiably. “Why don't you try the qunari encampment to the east? Lots of qunari there. Can't be hard to pick out a human boy in the middle of all of them.”

“The tal-vashoth do not have the boy.” Ginny growled, then she glanced up at the sky with a scowl. “It's getting dark, and we've lost the trail. Andraste's tits! Sorry, stranger. We'll settle for the templar reward for escaped apostates instead. Nothing personal.”

“Nothing personal,” Hawke agreed, and threw the knife.

Ginny jerked back in her saddle with a hoarse gasp, the knife jutting out from between her eyes, and collapsed in slow motion off her seat, her horse rearing and whinnying as its rider turned so abruptly into dead weight. Leman charged, barking and snapping at the other horses, causing them to shriek and kick, their riders cursing as they fought to keep their balance, then a flash of lightning sparked forward from Anders' fingers, forking out towards the animals.

It was too much for the horses; as one, they whirled, spooked, bucking and shrieking, stampeding away down the path despite their riders' efforts.

“What... what now?” one of the elf girls asked timidly, wide-eyed with shock.

“This is the part where we start running.” Hawke told her, grabbing her wrist, Anders picking up the smallest child and Leman nudging the last one urgently forward with its nose. “Run!”

VII.

“It is good to see you again, Hawke,” the Keeper said gently. The exhausted elvhen apostates were alternating between clinging to Anders' coat or leaning against Leman, too frightened and too tired to speak as the other Dalish coaxed them into accepting bowls of soup. “ _Ma serannas_.”

“I hope you don't mind, but we might have to stay here for the night. Angry mercenaries, you understand,” Hawke explained. He also didn't quite want to face the prospect of descending Sundermount in the dead of night, not when he was already this tired.

“Of course. You are both guests – a spare wagon has been prepared for you and your _shemlen_ friend. Thank you for your efforts. I will teach them well in our ways.”

“The pay was good. Out of curiosity, did the sylvanwood payment come from you?”

“Not our tribe,” the Keeper said, with a gesture at the wagons around them. “But the father of Delia is a merchant, and I gather he has saved all the years that she was taken for this eventuality. He cannot have her return to him, but he will visit her when he is able. We were not advised about the boy, Martiel.”

“Last minute addition. Apparently he's new – entered the Circle only a few days ago.” Hawke shrugged. “Marthana assumed that you'd accept him as well, what with the pointy ears and the puppy eyes, but now that we're here-”

“We will.” The Keeper assured him, untroubled. “How is Merrill?”

Hawke wondered if he could sense a shade of concern in the Keeper's even tone. “She's fine. Varric gave her a ball of twine to navigate the city with. Drives the Lowtown market stall owners positively crazy.”

“That is... good,” the Keeper allowed, with a pause. “I had hoped that your _shemlen_ city would distract her. She has much curiosity in her for our kind. I had thought perhaps that if she could see more of the world, that she would forget what was meant to be forgotten.”

“I sort of doubt it.” Hawke said dryly. Someone who would turn to blood magic to 'resurrect elvhen history' likely wasn't doing it out of a general sense of curiosity.

“Perhaps you are right,” the Keeper said, a little sadly, then she glanced over at the bonfire at the sudden sound of weeping. One of the elvhen apostates had finally collapsed, her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking with sobs. “It must have been a difficult journey.”

On hindsight, it probably hadn't been a very good idea to get rid of Ginny in front of the kids. With a sigh, Hawke walked over even as Anders ineffectively tried to calm the girl down, and sank down on his haunches before her.

“Anayla was it?”

“I'm sorry, Messere,” Anayla whispered, between sobs. “I'm sorry. I'm so tired. So _frightened_. I've never been out of the alienage until... until the Circle. I never thought... I didn't want... I wish I never had magic!”

“Don't be silly,” Hawke palmed a pack of cards from one of his pouches. “Everyone can do a bit of magic. It's just that most people never find out.”

“You don't have bad dreams,” Anayla choked out. “You can't make fire jump from your fingers.”

“Everyone has bad dreams now and then. I don't want to tell you about some of mine,” Hawke smiled as charmingly as he could. “But I'll show you one of my magic tricks. It's a secret,” he added, as he shuffled the cards and opened them into a wide fan. “Pick a card. Any card.”

Later, with the kids curled up and sound asleep between them on the bedding in the spare elvhen wagon, having refused to be separated from their 'saviors' for now, Anders murmured, “You're very good with children.”

Hawke glanced over. Anders looked bone weary, but at least he was wearing a faint smile, and the pinched look was gone. “Bethany used to get that way sometimes when she was younger, particularly after Father passed away. The templars would come, and she'd have to be confined to her room. I'd sit in with her and do 'magic' tricks, make her smile.”

Anders sighed. “It shouldn't have to be that way.”

“Turned out for the best. Great sleight of hand training, good for cutting purses and 'liberating' artifacts.” Hawke yawned.

“But so you support the-”

“I don't support anything if there isn't money to be had in it,” Hawke corrected.

“But your sister is a mage.”

“My sister is my sister,” Hawke retorted. “And don't think I've forgotten what you're doing. If the templars find her because of your clinic, I'll kill you.”

Anders made a frustrated sound. “Whenever I think I have you all figured out you do something that drives all my conclusions out of the window!” Martiel stirred, with a little frown, and Anders hastily lowered his voice. “I can't understand you.”

“Good.”

“ _Good_?”

“Seems to me that when you can pigeonhole someone, that's when you get tired of them,” Hawke put on his best, playful smile.

Anders closed his eyes quickly. “Don't look at me like that. There are children present.”

“And a whole encampment of Dalish. Pity. The things I'll do to you otherwise,” Hawke pitched his voice into a low purr, and with an inarticulate groan, Anders hastily turned his back on Hawke, pulling a pillow over his ears. Stifling a chuckle, Hawke slowed his breathing, settling into sleep.

VIII.

Anders had bruised-looking eyes in the morning when they finally managed to extricate themselves from the Dalish encampment and the kids' tearful farewells, and he was silent all the way to Kirkwall despite Hawke's attempts at conversation. Eventually, once they reached the eastern gate, he excused himself with a mumbled farewell and hurried away.

Hawke checked in on Athenril, giving a quick summary of what had happened. The smuggler looked resigned, but unsurprised. “Word on the vine is that the Winters had a run in with the tal-vashoth, lost their leader and several of their lieutenants. I wouldn't want to be you if they ever guessed what happened, though.”

“What about Saemus?”

Athenril smirked. “Reappeared in the Viscount's Keep, looking none the worse for wear, and had a flaming row with his father, I gather. I think the old man's looking to marry him off and hopefully get him settled.”

“So the Winters were truly sent by the Viscount himself? What an interesting family.”

“Didn't want his son looking so friendly with the invaders,” Athenril said, already disinterested. “Once the tourist presents himself to the contact, we'll get paid. Good work, Hawke. As always. But if I were you, I'll lie low for a while. I'll drop you a note when there's another run to be made.”

Hawke checked in with his mother back at Gamlen's place, then located Bethany at Anders' clinic. Anders was nowhere to be seen, and eventually, Hawke got tired of Bethany's accusing glances and snide remarks, leaving Leman with her as he headed over to the Hanged Man.

Varric always seemed endlessly curious about his misadventures. “So you fought off the Winters and the tal-vashoth? Single-handedly?”

“You forgot the part where I was unarmed and wearing my breeches on my head,” Hawke drawled, amused. “No, Varric. Let's just leave the status quo as it is now. I've no real interest in being jumped in dark alleys by vengeful mercenaries.”

“True,” Varric agreed, if regretfully. “Anyway, there are a few decent houses on the market. Here.” He pushed a bound set of scrolls over to Hawke. “Thought you'd like to know.”

“Thanks.” Hawke took the folder without looking at it. “I'll give it to Mother.”

“Unless you come into a big windfall, you're not going to be able to afford the old estate, Hawke,” Varric said gently. “And even if you could, spending all that money – money that could make more and more money – to live in a big old house? I don't know.”

“She didn't come to Kirkwall to live in that dump.”

“Yeah. She didn't. All of you came to Kirkwall to escape the Blight. Mission accomplished.” Varric held out his hands. “If you really come into a lot of coin, I'm sure I can get the current owners of the Amell estates to sell. But until then, start out smaller. Less trouble that way.”

Unfortunately, trouble found them regardless in less than a week, when a thin-lipped Aveline marched into the Hanged Man and into Varric's suite, where Hawke, Varric and Merrill were playing an increasingly desultory game of diamondback. Merrill just couldn't seem to grasp some of the rules, particularly the ones about how 'not cheating' was also code for 'just not being caught', and it was a good thing that they were playing for imaginary coin.

“Ah, Aveline,” Hawke glanced up. “How's my favorite guard captain? Care for a round of cards?”

Aveline ignored the invitation. “Hawke. Why is it that if I don't keep an eye on you for a month you get yourself into so much trouble?”

“Whatever it is that I did,” Hawke said reasonably, “I can explain.”

“Explain this, then!” Aveline slapped a piece of paper on the table, scattering cards and seashell tokens.

“It's a... really rather good drawing of me,” Hawke said, after a moment.

“I like it,” Merrill picked up the paper. “Look at all the shading! They even got the little wrinkly lines at your eyes right.”

“Wrinkly lines or not,” Aveline said severely, “That was placed on my desk! By a Qunari delegate, who just _walked_ into the barracks, ignoring the Viscount's office altogether! You don't know what sort of story I had to make up to hide it from the seneschal! Care to explain, Hawke?”

“Amazingly enough,” Hawke thought back over the last few weeks slowly, “I really think that whatever it was, I didn't do it.”

“If you're hiding something from me, Hawke,” Aveline growled, fuming, “I _will_ kick your arse.”

“Ah... perhaps I could explain,” said a familiar voice from the doorway. Saemus stepped into Varric's suite, dressed in a simple tunic and breeches that made him look more like any stray Lowtown child rather than the son of the most powerful man in Kirkwall. Behind him, looming in the doorway, was Ashaad, who seemed oblivious to the whispering and pointing from the tavern behind them.

“Points for the attempt at disguise,” Hawke said, blinking, “But it's sort of negated by the giant sore thumb glowering behind you.”

Varric hastily shut the door behind them both, and found chairs for everyone, clearing the diamondback game away discreetly. The dwarf had the weirdly avaricious gleam in his eyes that he got whenever he 'sensed' a 'story', and was already whipping out paper and quill.

Saemus looked apologetic under Aveline's glare. “This was the best I could think of. I thought the city guard would be the best place to start looking for someone, when Ashaad said that he wanted to speak to you. We didn't know your full name, so he drew a picture. I _was_ going to give it discreetly to the Captain, but Ashaad walked right into the Keep and gave it to her directly. I think perhaps there was, ah, a misunderstanding. But the Captain seemed to react to the picture, so we followed her here. My apologies.”

Aveline sighed. “I'm going to have to escort you home after this, Messere.”

“Please, call me Saemus,” Saemus glanced at Hawke. “Thank you again for the other day, serah Hawke.”

“Let's just agree to dispense with all the awkward honorifics,” Hawke said, reaching over the table to shake his hand. “The coin was good enough. What did your somber friend want to talk to me about?”

“The Arishok,” Ashaad rumbled, “Is a little direct in his understanding of the Qun, but that is as the Arishok should be. I am Ashaad, and my role allows me to see the _bas_ as more than annoyances at worst or tools at best. I am here to understand.”

“Let's skip the fascinating racial profiling and get to what you want to pay me to do,” Hawke suggested.

Aveline groaned. “ _Hawke_.”

“What? Or do qunari not have the concept of money?” Hawke felt mildly scandalised. “I heard the rumors.”

“I was abrupt to you in the cave.” Ashaad said, in the same flat rumble. “But you – or perhaps other _bas_ of your acquaintance – use the cave often, to smuggle out _bas saarebas_. A team of karashok mentioned seeing this when they were scoping out the tal-vashoth. Had they not, I would never have known about the cave, and would have led Saemus to the northern fork to try and hide. Likely, I would have then been killed.”

Hawke smirked. “So I saved you twice, technically.”

“Two services you have done to the Qun. That gives you the right to do one more.” Ashaad nodded.

“Pardon me? I help you twice, means I have to help you again?”

“Whatever Ashaad needs help with,” Saemus said quickly, “I'm sure that I can reimburse you for your time.”

“Oh. That's all right, then.” Hawke relaxed.

“The Arishok believes that we should not use _bas_ to repair a wrong to the the Qun. I think that you need _bas_ to find _bas_ on their home ground,” Ashaad said evenly. “I had meant to inform Saemus of this when I called him to the Wounded Coast, but we were attacked. We qunari are here in Kirkwall to retrieve an artifact that was stolen from us by _bas_. We have grounds to believe that the thief is still in Kirkwall.”

“How exciting,” Merrill said brightly. “Things like this never happen in the forest.”

“An artifact? What artifact?” Aveline demanded. “Why wasn't the Viscount told? Why _Hawke_ , of all people, instead?”

“Suddenly, I'm hurt,” Hawke protested, even as Varric chuckled.

Ashaad stared at Aveline evenly. “Your Viscount has not proven himself useful to the Qun. Hawke has done so.”

“Lucky me,” Hawke murmured. “So what artifact are we talking about, and do you have a description of the thief?”

“The relic is known as the Tome of Koslun. It is a book,” Ashaad explained, unnecessarily.

“So there are perhaps a billion books in Kirkwall. No further specifics?”

“No.” There was a pause. “The thief is female. One of your kind.”

“And that,” Hawke groaned, “Just about rules out, oh, maybe half of the city's population. Great. What does the book do? Is it magical?”

“No.” Ashaad didn't seem inclined to elaborate, folding his thick arms across his broad chest.

“Can you at least draw me a picture?”

“Of the Tome, yes. Of the thief, no.” Ashaad produced a folded piece of paper from a pouch at his belt and handed it over.

Hawke unfolded the paper to see a sketch of a thick book, with a runed inscription on the cover, and passed it to Varric, who scribbled something in his journal before handing it over to Aveline. “That's something, at least.”

“I'll check with my contacts.” Varric was sketching a copy of the runed inscription.

“I'll put the word out,” Aveline nodded, carefully folding up the paper again.

“I'll ask around the alienage,” Merrill said, looking attentive, then she deflated a little when everyone glanced at her. “Um. I guess maybe that won't be very helpful, will it.”

“No, I'm sure it'll help, somehow, Daisy,” Varric said gallantly.

“Athenril might know something about it. At the least, we know all the good fences.” Hawke glanced at Varric's paper. “Give me a copy of that.”

“Then my business here is concluded,” Ashaad decided, rising from the table. “ _Panahedan_ , Hawke.”

“I'll walk Ashaad back to the Docks, then Saemus to the Keep.” Aveline also rose from the table.

“Don't I get an advance?” Hawke protested.

“You're going to ask for _money_ in a matter of such concern to the city's safety?” Aveline glowered.

“I have to eat?” Hawke smiled winningly, but her frown only furrowed deeper.

“Captain, I will be pleased to pay Hawke for his time.” Saemus passed a pouch to him. “Thank you, again, Hawke.”

“It's always a pleasure to work for the government. I'll walk with you,” Hawke told Aveline, pocketing the pouch after taking a quick look in the contents. Again, the money was good. Hawke decided he didn't entirely want to know how Saemus happened to have such a flow of coin.

Aveline narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “I can handle myself.”

“Undoubtedly, but I think I want to protect my investment. Besides, it's always entertaining to see lowlife unsuspecting bandits beg for mercy when they realize who they'd inadvertently jumped.”

Saemus hastily stifled a laugh, but Merrill piped in, “It's true,” and Aveline's glower softened, if grudgingly so.

“All right then. Let's make it an evening patrol, and we'll compare notes as we go.”

IX.

“I'll check,” Athenril said doubtfully, “But something like this will have to have very specific interested parties, Hawke. I doubt it'd go through the usual channels.”

“Specific parties who aren't afraid of the full might of a qunari army, you mean.”

“Precisely.” Athenril pursed her lips, tracing the drawing of the rune. “Unless the book is magical. Perhaps that would explain it. Otherwise, I'm not sure why anyone would steal something like this.”

“It's not magical, according to the qunari, anyway. Maybe it's a new type of warfare. The book would be able to call the qunari to any corner of the earth once the word got out to the qunari about its location. Like a sort of... tracking beacon of death and destruction.”

“The qunari haven't exactly been violent and destructive.” Athenril pointed out, though her lips curled briefly in a wry smile. “But perhaps you have a point there. I'll keep an eye out, if you cut me into the deal that you brokered with the Viscount's son.”

“I didn't mention anything about a deal.”

“I know you very well, Hawke. Pay up.”

In a considerably more surly mood, Hawke circled over to Darktown to put the word out with a few other contacts, and because he was in the vicinity anyway, ambled over to the clinic to check on his sister. Not because he was being possessive or anything.

Bethany was dispensing vials of elfroot potion to a mother and her two scruffy children, and she frowned when he approached. Her patients scurried past, and Bethany planted her hands on her hips, clearly spoiling for a fight. “And what are you doing here?”

“Checking to see that you haven't been kidnapped?” Hawke suggested, palms raised quickly in surrender. At the sound of his voice, Anders looked up sharply from where he had been carrying rolls of bandages to the makeshift store room and tripped over a crate, which was pretty funny up until Bethany stepped heavily on his foot. Ouch.

“Well, I haven't. Obviously. Finished?”

“Too busy to have lunch with your brother?”

Bethany wavered under Hawke's practised, hopeful look, and she sighed. “Anders, could I...?”

“Oh, ah, of course,” Anders muttered, from where he was picking up the bandages. Bethany scowled at Hawke, grabbing him by the elbow and all but dragging her brother out of the clinic. Leman sat up, but she shook her head at it, and it settled back down again, wagging its tail.

Once they were out of sight of the clinic, on their way back up to Lowtown, Bethany hissed, “And what did you do to him _this_ time?”

“I haven't done anything,” Hawke frowned. “Why, what did he say about me?”

“He used to ask _me_ a lot of questions about you,” Bethany retorted. “But that's normal. Most people who meet you end up asking after you – you seem to spread a lot of crazy wherever you go. But lately it's getting worse. The way he sometimes talks about you, if I didn't know better, I'll think that he was acting like a lovesick idiot.”

“Well, that's an interesting analogy.” Hawke smirked. It could explain a lot of the strangeness about Anders' behavior.

“Since it's _you_ , however, it has to be something else,” Bethany said suspiciously, and somewhat illogically. “Was it on that last thing you did for Athenril?”

“Not that I recall, and no, you're not going to ask about what I do for Athenril.”

“Maybe if you let me back into your life now and then I wouldn't spend mine doing things that annoy you.”

“Tired of delivering squalling babies and healing sick brats already?” Hawke asked, with mock surprise.

“No,” Bethany glowered at him, then she sighed. “All right, not every day is sunshine and roses in a free clinic full of the desperately poor. But I don't regret helping out. Still... you never take me along on anything fun any more. You used to.”

“All right. If I have to do anything remotely exciting, you'll be the first on my list.”

“Liar,” Bethany accused, though her smile was affectionate, wry. “You don't have to protect me any longer. I'm an adult.”

“It's when you say things like that,” Hawke pointed out, “I get nervous. Like you're tempting fate. And then I end up being absolutely exasperating to you for the next couple of days until the sense of foreboding passes.”

“Don't be silly.” Bethany reached out and squeezed his hand. “Let's go to that sandwich place you like on the eastern side of Lowtown. And then you can tell me all about the latest mess that you're in.”

Hawke squeezed gratefully back, though he drawled, “You're so certain that I'm in some sort of trouble.”

“With you, brother? I'll be surprised if you weren't.”

X.

Now that he knew what he was looking at, Hawke wasn't entirely surprised when Anders went straight back to his pinched expression and studied silence on their next run. They were using a new, disused route that Hawke had cleared with Varric and Merrill a couple of days before, and Hawke was too busy continuously scouting ahead to pay him any heed. Experience in the mining tunnels told him that it never paid to be over-confident, especially now that they were on a new route. The old one, Athenril had decided, was becoming too dangerous. One never knew what Saemus might inadvertently mention to his father, and as to Ashaad, it was obvious that the qunari had no love for mages.

Once the 'goods' were safely in the hands of the usual captain in the hidden cove, however, and they were heading back to Kirkwall through the tunnels, on an impulse, Hawke reached out and rubbed a thumb playfully up against the side of Anders' neck. The reaction was promising; the mage jerked back as though scalded, flushing. “ _Hawke_.”

“I think I preferred it when you called me 'Garrett',” Hawke smiled lazily.

“I... I have to get back to my clinic.” Anders said evasively, taking a step forward, only for Hawke to plant a hand against the wall before him, barring his way.

“Bethany asked me whether I did anything to you,” Hawke said innocently, crowding Anders against the wall by splaying his right palm against the wall as well, trapping the mage . “I haven't done anything to you since the Blooming Rose, have I?”

“N-no.” Anders said, his eyes gathering a wild look, his shoulders flattened against crumbling stone. “Hawke, my patients need me.”

“It wasn't for lack of trying,” Hawke ignored Anders' protests, sidling closer until he was pressed flush against the mage, their lips inches apart. Anders was frozen still now, panting, his eyes half-lidded with anticipation, a most becoming flush growing in his cheeks as Hawke carded his hands up his bound hair to undo the ribbon. When he finally closed the distance between their lips, Anders moaned, squirming, an erection already straining at his breeches, whimpering as Hawke curled his fingers around his skull to crush him closer, grinding their hips together when Anders clawed at his shoulders, then wrapped his arms around his neck, filling the empty tunnel with echoes of their groans and wet gasps.

Anders arched back with a low whine when Hawke finally moved his attention down, nipping over an unshaven chin to his neck, worrying his teeth playfully at his pulse. “You're... I swear you're a demon, Hawke,” the mage whispered, between gritted teeth. “I can barely think when you're around... all I want to do is go down on my knees and do whatever you want of me.”

A hot flash of lust, all the more intense for it being unexpected, surged through him, pooling restlessly in a tightening coil within him, and Hawke purred, “I can certainly think of something for you to do to me on your knees.”

Anders let out a choked laugh that stifled into another moan as Hawke kissed him, more slowly this time, unhurriedly taking his mouth until the mage was whimpering and pushing at his shoulders. Dazed, his eyes blown dark with lust, Anders sank down on his knees, pulling urgently at the buckle of Hawke's belt, then drawing out his arousal with eager fingers, pressing only one impatient lick over the tip before swallowing him down. It wasn't expert by any means, and Anders couldn't take all of him, but Hawke leaned his right arm against the wall and pressed his forehead to his bracer, tensing as it took all of his self-control not to hold Anders down and thrust deeply into the hot, tight throat.

At his harsh curse, Anders seemed encouraged, drawing back tentatively nearly to the swollen head before pushing back down, sucking at him, and this time Hawke curled his fingers tightly enough in the mage's shoulder-long mane of blonde hair with a low gasp. Anders set a frustratingly slow, all too tentative rhythm, until Hawke held him tight and _growled_ , then hissed at the hungry moan that Anders made in response, stuttered and etched in delicious vibration around his flesh.

He nudged Anders' free hand away from where it was reaching down to the laces on the mage's breeches, and thankfully Anders didn't seem to need a second warning, obediently curling his hand back on Hawke's hip. Hawke didn't think he could really form anything more than moans and other embarrassing, gasping sounds at this point-

Anders choked and pulled back hastily when the ecstasy coiling within him finally snapped his self-control, and looked startled as the excess painted a thick stripe over his chin. Hawke had bitten down on his bracer to stifle his cry, and he let out a hoarse laugh as he sank down, tugging at Anders until the mage sat, knees up, with Hawke sprawled comfortably in his lap, straddling him.

Once he had steadied his breath, Hawke grinned as he leaned up to lick Anders' face clean, all catlike swipes of his tongue, until Anders gripped his shoulders tightly, his hands shaky with desire, wide-eyed. “You...” he stuttered, then gasped, “ _Please_ ,” when Hawke's grin merely widened as he rocked his hips over Anders' still clothed arousal.

“Deep breaths, Anders, _breathe_ ,” Hawke teased, as he pressed a swift, hard kiss on Anders' mouth, tugging off his own boots and squirming out of his breeches. The broken tiles scraped over his knees, but he ignored it, working at the laces at Anders' waist until he had thick, straining flesh trapped in his fingers. “I want to ride you.”

“I never thought... Maker, yes,” Anders breathed, his gaze glued on Hawke's fingers as the rogue navigated a pouch to locate the vial of oil that he used for his blades. “Let me do that for you.”

“Hands on the floor, Anders. I want you to watch,” Hawke smirked as Anders shuddered visibly but complied, his long, elegant fingers twitching and restless on the dusty floor.

When he had lowered himself down until they were fully entwined, Anders let out a shaky breath more akin to a sob than a groan, and Hawke felt a thorny stir of lust, almost painful for all that it was too soon. Once his body had finally relaxed enough for him to rock forward, Anders let out a low, gasping cry, a plea, a prayer, and Hawke braced himself with both hands against the wall and set his knees, leaning forward for a biting, sloppy kiss.

Later, sated and having dressed and cleaned themselves up the best they could with a spare cloth in Anders' pouches, curled a little awkwardly against each other and the wall, Anders said, in a whisper so soft that Hawke almost didn't catch his words, “I don't want your pity.”

“You think too much,” Hawke yawned, with his head pillowed against Anders' shoulder. Feathers, at least, made for a soft, if slightly itchy surface.

“I can't do this, Garrett,” Anders said tiredly. “I can't just settle for a taste of you now and then whenever you feel like a 'bit of fun', knowing that it's nothing more than that to you, that I'm just one of many others to you.”

“ 'Many others'?” Hawke repeated, if teasingly. “My, my. And I thought only Bethany tended to think that of me.”

“It's not funny to me,” Anders retorted sharply, then he rubbed at his eyes with a deep sigh. “I've been... infatuated with you ever since I first saw you. I would go through Hightown on any excuse just in the hopes of getting a glimpse of you, think of you at night and wonder what it would be like to have you. Then I thought that maybe if I just had one night, I'll get over my obsession. It took days for me to gather enough courage. Then I felt that it was worth it. It was better than I could have imagined.”

“But it wasn't worth it,” Anders continued, when Hawke opened his mouth. “Everything got worse. Infatuation turned so quickly into an obsession, so I stayed away from Hightown and tried to forget you. But the Maker has his cruel days, I presume. Of all the 'operatives' I thought I'd have to work with when I agreed to assist the underground, I didn't think it'd be you. At first I thought maybe it would be for the best. Getting to really know someone is how illusions get shattered.”

“Anders-”

“But it didn't happen. I didn't want to admire or respect you, but I do. Beneath your apparent selfishness and your love of coin, I think you're actually a good man. I've spent most of my life on the run, afraid of templars. I've never met anyone who was utterly unafraid of anyone until I met you. I think you'll take on the Order itself if they ever did come for your sister, and you wouldn't even think twice about it. Do you know,” Anders said, with a choked laugh, “How truly jealous I am of Bethany sometimes? And she takes you for granted.”

“Our father was an apostate,” Hawke reached up to rub his palm gently over Anders' cheek. “Perhaps we don't share the majority view.”

“I want to make you a deal,” Anders nervously twisted his fingers together. “I'll stop teaching your sister. If you want, I'll even ask her to stop helping out at the clinic. Anything. In return, I want you to stop doing this to me. If we can be friends, I'll like to remain friends. But stop torturing me with what I can't have.”

The raw pain in Anders' tone struck a deep chord. It wasn't pity, or sympathy that welled in response, but a visceral sense of... uncertainty, a spring pulling taut. “And what's that?”

“That you'll return even a fraction of what I feel for you,”

“And how would you know that it won't happen if you won't even try?” Hawke asked dryly. “In _normal_ sequences for this sort of thing, people tend to start off as friends, then have at least a token period of courtship before seguing into awkward sexual misadventures and impassioned confessions. You don't get to just jump to the conclusion, expect a similar response and then move into the house. Not that we really have any more room for a fifth person.”

Anders stared at him for a long, silent moment, then he finally smiled, if wryly. “I'm going about this all wrongly, aren't I? It seems so much easier in all the books that I've read.”

“I don't want to know what sort of books you read, they're clearly rubbish,” Hawke declared, and Anders turned towards him, lips parted, all but begging for a kiss-

Someone cleared their throat loudly behind them. Hawke jerked away, reaching instantly for his blades, then he relaxed, with a snort. “Couldn't you at least have waited another fifteen minutes or so?”

Isabela folded her arms across her ample chest and grinned at them both, unrepentant. “Maybe I shouldn't tell you how long I've actually been waiting, then.”

Hawke chuckled, but Anders looked horrified, even as the rogue pulled himself a little unsteadily to his feet and helped him up to his. “Anders, this is Isabela. Isabela, Anders.”

“I never thought that you'd go for the apostate-on-the-run look,” Isabela gave Anders a brazen once over. “Hmm. You look familiar. Have I seen you before?”

“Ah.” Anders said, blinking. “Were you at the Pearl in Ferelden? Just before the Blight? You were that ship's captain.”

“Oh,” Isabela giggled – to Hawke's astonishment. “I remember now! _You're_ that mage who could do the electricity thing with his fingers!”

“I, ah,” Anders looked embarrassed, when Hawke arched an eyebrow. “When I was younger, during one ultimately unsuccessful attempt at escaping the templars, I, uh, hid in a tavern in Denerim.”

“Lost his virginity in a rather spectacular and thorough fashion, I should say,” Isabela cut in helpfully.

“Thank you for just... just letting that out into the open, Isabela,” Anders muttered, pinching at the bridge of his nose, reddening as Hawke chuckled wickedly.

“As fascinating as that was, why are you here, Isabela? Athenril got worried?”

“I actually had something to discuss with you, hopefully in private,” Isabela said, pursing her lips. “And then I got distracted, and now my questions are all scrambled. Blast. How about tomorrow morning at the Hanged Man?”

“I'll be there,” Hawke promised.

“Well, I'll leave you both to it then,” Isabela said cheerfully, turning to go, with a backward wave. “But if you ever decide to consider some meat in your sandwich, hook me up.”

“We should get back to Kirkwall, Garrett,” Anders said, once Isabela's footsteps had faded away, though he relaxed tentatively into Hawke's touch, and leaned eagerly enough into their kiss.

XI.

Varric and Hawke sat at the cards table in Varric's suite, watching Isabela drink whisky with an air of unusual determination. She'd managed to get halfway through the bottle – one of Varric's private stash of halfway decent alcohol – when she finally sighed, and rubbed both of her palms up over her eyes, as though steeling herself for a blow. “Promise me you won't kill me when I tell you what I have to say.”

“All right, now you've made me worried. What could it be? You're in trouble? You've slept with Bethany?” Hawke paused, rewinding his words in his head. “Actually, if you did the latter, I might kill you anyway.”

“I'm in trouble, and it has nothing to do with your precious sister,” Isabela said dryly. “Honestly, Hawke. Has she even managed to lose her virginity with you hovering around her all the time threatening to castrate anyone who even looks at her sideways? How's she ever going to have fun? How is your mother ever going to have little squalling grandchildren?”

“We're not going to discuss that,” Hawke said primly, and Varric chuckled.

“Isabela, come on. Whatever you're in trouble with, I'm sure that between the three of us, we can think of something. And then if you're really sorry, afterwards you can head over to Choirboy at the Chantry and do a confession.”

“All right. All right. I, ah, I didn't go into the full details about why I was originally grounded here.”

“You're looking for something to keep Castillon off your back, aren't you?” Hawke recalled. “I said that I would help you find it – like I said, between Athenril and I, we know all the good fences – but you didn't want my help.”

“You've been a good friend to me, Hawke, you and Varric. I'm not really used to the concept,” Isabela said, taking a quick gulp of her glass to hide her awkward tone. “I guess I didn't want to lose that. I thought maybe if I ever found it myself, I'd just return it to Castillon, and neither of you would ever have to know about it.”

“The suspense is killing me, Isabela. What in the Maker's name is this relic?” Varric asked, scribbling notes. “The way you talk about it, I'm beginning to think it's Castillon's pickled right ball or something.”

“I want you both to promise me first.”

“I _promise_ not to kill you over whatever it is that you've done, so long as it has nothing to do with Bethany,” Hawke said, with an exaggerated partial bow, and Varric nodded as well.

“All right.” Isabela took a deep breath. “I heard through my other sources that people have been enquiring after the same thing recently. I traced the enquiries back from their contacts and came up with four names: yours, Athenril's, Varric's and Aveline's.”

“ _You're_ the thief?” Hawke said, incredulous.

“Look. I just want to know who asked you to find the Tome. This is important, Hawke. It could be one of Castillon's men.”

“I think you know the answer to that, Isabela. Or you wouldn't have asked us to promise first.” Varric pointed out.

“That was my first guess, actually,” Isabela confessed, and exhaled loudly. “That of all the people I've known, Hawke would be the only one who would somehow, _somehow_ be able to broker a deal with the qunari to find this for them. Blast! I was hoping that it would have been one of Castillon's men. That would have made things easier.”

“Better the devil you know than the ones with an army and big horns?” Hawke drawled, thinking quickly. If Isabela was a the thief – and on hindsight, this didn't surprise him after all, somehow – and she didn't have the Tome, that made things somewhat more difficult. “How did you lose the Tome, anyway?”

“I was shipwrecked,” Isabela said, somewhat testily. “I had a cargo full of frightened people. Ever tried to herd non-sailors into lifeboats in the middle of a storm while a ship's breaking up all around you? I directed some of the men to salvage work, but the rest of us were all busy trying to get everyone off the ship. I went last, washed up on the Wounded Coast, and got to Kirkwall.”

“In other words,” Hawke said slowly, feeling a headache coming on, “The Tome could actually be bloody anywhere. Might be ten fathoms deep, or halfway on its way to Tevinter, or used as bathroom paper somewhere in Kirkwall.”

“If it was at the wreckage, the qunari would have found it already.” Isabela said, with a sigh. “I've seen them combing over the wreck. And either I've been very unlucky all this while, or they can sense roughly where the damned book is. They followed us a very long way, even when I used every trick I'd ever learned to throw off pursuit. Sailing into the storm was a last resort. I think they know that it's in Kirkwall.”

Ashaad had certainly said something about having 'grounds to believe' that the bloody book was in Kirkwall, but it was a bit of a long shot to instantly assume it was magical. Even if the qunari did have their own mages, Hawke personally had never heard of magic ever being used to find things. “I guess we have that, at least. Tell me everything you know. And then I think maybe you should take a short holiday for a while, in case the qunari find you.”

“You're not angry with me?” Isabela asked, sounding relieved.

“I might be somewhat disappointed that you never told me about it, but I've made about twelve sovereigns in a net fee from this so far,” Hawke admitted. “So I think I'll withhold my opinion for now.”

“Hah.” Isabela said wryly. “I knew it. I won't leave Kirkwall, Hawke. I want to see this through. I started this mess. Here's how I can help. I thought that if the Tome was in Kirkwall, it'd definitely be with one of the sailors I instructed to do the salvage work. I've been keeping an eye on all of them, and I've managed to narrow the count down to about ten suspects. Of this lot, two have recently gone to ground, probably after all of you put the word out about the Tome. I think either of them – or both – have been trying to make a deal with the Tevinter magisters. There's been a few of them in town, and they were Castillon's original interested parties.”

That explained who would be crazy enough to want a qunari tracking beacon. Tevinter mages probably were several cards short of a full deck to begin with. “Finding two people would be far easier than a book,” Varric grunted. “You've got descriptions and names, I assume.”

“That I do.”

“Fenris might already have people keeping an eye on the magisters. I'll have a word with him.” It was probably a good idea to keep an eye on every angle of a transaction. The only problem would be having to talk Fenris out of running over to kick the magisters' doors down. “By the way, just to be certain that we're all on the same page, the Tome is going back to the qunari when we find it.”

“What?” Isabela scowled. “I've told you before that it's the only thing that'll save my skin from Castillon! You have to give me the Tome when you find it. Castillon would take the Tome back to Antiva and the qunari will just follow it there. Problem solved.”

“Castillon would come to Kirkwall for the Tome?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I've seen Hayder snooping around now and then. Hayder's one of Castillon's most trusted men. Why?”

“I'm going to clarify with my contact exactly what the qunari want in order for them to get out of Kirkwall – and for me to get paid,” Hawke said, thoughtfully. “I'm beginning to think that it might not only be the Tome.”

“Hawke, I _said_ -”

“I know what you said, Isabela. You didn't trust me on this before, but now I'm asking you to. If you can't, then I can't help you either.”

“Fine. Fine!” Isabela threw up her hands. “I'll trust you on this. What are you going to do?”

“I'm thinking of a two card monte,” Hawke smiled slowly. “But I'm still working out all the details-”

Footsteps pounded up to Varric's door, then someone hammered on it. “Hawke? Hawke?”

“Don't break the door down,” Varric called out, walking over to open it. Standing in the doorway, red-faced, was one of the Fereldan refugees, looking out of breath and panicked as he leaned his palms against his knees, breathing hard.

“You're... Ethan, aren't you?” Hawke recalled. “Your son had a bad flu last week.” He'd had to distract the kid with a card trick while Bethany mixed up a tincture under Anders' direction; the kid had been thoroughly miserable and hadn't wanted to be there.

“Thank the Maker you're here,” Ethan gasped. “There's trouble at the clinic. The templars found it. We managed to sneak Bethany and Anders out into one of the closest tunnels before they arrived, but I don't know where that leads, or if the others have managed to distract the templars-”

“Which tunnel?” Hawke rose to his feet so quickly that the chair overturned, his hands curling tight.

“The one next to the clinic, the barred one,” Ethan said, still breathless. “Your sister said that she knew where it led.”

“And probably didn't mention all the slavers we had to wade through the last time we were there,” Hawke groaned.

“Let's get to Darktown. If the templars are still there, let me talk to them while you get into that tunnel,” Varric said, buckling Bianca to his back. “You concentrate on finding Sunshine.”

“I'm coming as well,” Isabela decided, rising to her feet.

XII.

The templars were gone, but nobody was really sure whether any of them had snuck in to the passageway during the fracas. Lirene at least had already arrived on the scene, and assured Hawke that she would take care of the chaos in the clinic. Barely able to voice a coherent thank-you, Hawke merely nodded at her, hurrying into the passageway, followed by Varric and Isabela, afraid of what he would find.

Overturned tables and shattered chairs in the first chamber lay testament to a recent battle. Bodies lay strewn on the ground, broken and burned by magic. They'd chanced on the slavers again, then, and retreated through the eastern corridors. Dimly, Hawke could hear the faint sounds of shouting and clashing steel, echoing through the tunnels.

He was past anger at this point, as he hurried down the corridors, stepping over bodies, almost slipping on fresh bloodstains. Many of the kills looked fresh, and were caused by bladework rather than magic. The templars must have come in after Bethany and Anders, and chanced on more slavers that had come down to look at the uproar.

A stack of barrels partially blocked the mouth to the next chamber, and Hawke peered warily through a crack. A group of five helmeted templars stood in the room, wiping their blades, while around them death rattles and tortured groans reverberated in an eerie echo around the room from the dead and dying around them. Thankfully, neither Bethany or Anders seemed to be among the broken bodies on the ground.

“The apostates must be hiding deeper in these tunnels,” one of the templars said, in disgust. “Status?”

“Nothing a potion can't fix, Ser Emrian.” The templar archer said, inspecting his arm. The templar plate had been shredded off, and there was an ugly gash along the broken buckles.

“The Fereldans in the clinic wouldn't talk,” a shorter, bulky templar to the archer's right with a broadsword said, in a flat voice. “But that mercenary from the Winters said that the girl is a Fereldan refugee as well, the healer's assistant.”

Hawke frowned, gritting his teeth. So his run-in with the Winters hadn't gone forgotten. But they would regret involving his sister, if he had anything to say about it. Isabela placed a hand tightly on his shoulder, squeezing, and he relaxed, with a sharp nod.

“I'm not concerned about the girl,” Ser Emrian growled. “I wouldn't trust a mercenary's word as far as I could throw him. If the girl truly has magic – which we can't even confirm – then she goes into the Circle unless she proves herself too far gone to be retrieved. Our main concern is the Gray Warden.”

 _Gray Warden?_ Hawke glanced at Varric, puzzled, but he shrugged.

“We didn't manage to trap him before, with that set up in the Chantry,” a templar to the archer's left said. “And I heard that he'd managed to escape seven times from the Fereldan Circle before he fell in with the Warden-Commander.”

“Whatever it is, he's washed his hands of the Wardens, Anthon. That makes him fair game. We'll have to screen the Fereldan refugees after this. They may be harboring more apostates. Maker knows what all that uncontrolled magic may have infected them with.” Ser Emrian said, glancing at both the exits. “The slavers were coming from the north. If they're allied with the apostates, we should be able to find them in that direction.”

Hawke had had enough. Tossing a smoke bomb into the templar's midst, he took a deep breath and circled out quickly into the smoke, sensing Isabela following him. Behind, he could hear the twang of Bianca's bow-string, and the confused shouting of the templars. Finding his target – the bulky templar – he buried both blades deep in the gap between the templar's helmet and his chestpiece. From the gurgling sounds to his left, he guessed that Isabela had taken care of Anthon.

“Enemies!” Ser Emrian roared, coughing, “Cowards!” There was a shearing sound, like a bolt glancing off a shield, and Hawke's swipe met only an upraised blade. The smoke was clearing, and in his peripheral vision, Hawke noted that Anthon, the archer and his target were down. Isabela was dancing with a templar, laughing as she sidestepped his heavy swings, and Hawke ducked away as Emrian lunged at him, bared blade stabbing forward.

He parried the second swing, feinting, then baring his teeth as his follow-through drew a skittering line over a shoulder-plate rather than finding its mark, as Emrian stepped sharply back and swung his shield forward. Hawke grunted as the edge of the heavy shield slammed into his ribs, probably cracking them and flinging him back against the wall. Ser Emrian was _strong_. He brought up his blades just in time to block a downward slash, and used Emrian 's distraction as the templar raised his shield to block another of Varric's bolts to roll free, blades shearing up against armored greaves without finding their mark.

Emrian roared, whirling with a heavy backhand slice, and though Hawke leaped back the tip of the longsword dragged a deep gash across his left arm. Gritting his teeth, he darted around, slamming the heel of his foot into Emrian's right knee, and darting away again as the templar lost his balance, falling heavily onto his back.

Emrian tried to scramble to his feet, but Hawke was already crouched on top of him, his teeth bared as he rammed the slender edge of his offhand blade through the slit in the templar's helm.

When he got back up, grimacing, his injured arm and side aching, Isabela had brought down the last templar with a quick, sharp slice over his neck, sporting a gash over her left thigh but otherwise unharmed. Hawke wiped his blades clean and took a breath, then grit his teeth against the pain and picked the northern corridor.

The next chamber was a set of living quarters, with cell-like rooms dotting the walls. A pair of slavers were setting their shoulders to a door, while from within Hawke could hear Bethany, muffled, shouting curses that would have made Mother blush. A throwing dagger took care of the first, and a bolt from Bianca, the second, then Varric turned around to keep watch, while Isabela walked briskly to the other entrance at the end of the chamber, grabbing a chair from a corner desk and jamming it under the doorknob.

“Bethany?” Hawke called out, “Bethany, are you all right?”

“Big brother!” The door swung open, and Bethany flew out into his arms, burying her face in his neck. “I knew you'd come.”

“You're unhurt.” Hawke said, his voice unsteady with relief. “Oh, thank the Maker.”

Anders looked exhausted as he emerged from the room behind Bethany, leaning back heavily against the doorway. Fighting up to this point had evidently taken all the reserves of magic that the mage had. “There are templars-”

“Dead.” Hawke cut in shortly, and sheathed his blades meaningfully at his back.

“You're hurt. Let me.” Bethany pressed her palms to his arm, and the tingle of healing magic knit the gash back together, the ache at his flank fading slowly.

“The templars were tipped off by the Winters,” Hawke told Anders, still hugging his sister protectively. “Whoever it was who talked, I'll find him. But they weren't really interested in Bethany. They were looking for some sort of escaped Gray Warden.”

To his surprise, Anders suddenly averted his eyes, guiltily. “Ah... about that...”

“ _You're_ a Gray Warden?” Hawke blinked. “I thought that that's something you can't quit from!”

“I had a cat,” Anders said defensively, “The Wardens thought it made me soft, so they forced me to give it away. Poor Ser Pounce-a-lot. He never did anyone any harm. Also, I hated the blighted Deep Roads.”

“You quit the Gray Wardens over a _cat_?”

“Ser Pounce-a-lot wasn't just a cat!”

“Can we talk about this later?” Bethany asked plaintively.

Hawke took a deep breath. “Fine. We'll speak later, Anders.”

“We've got company,” Varric growled, hefting his crossbow and cocking his head, then he lowered it a fraction and backed away into the chamber as Hawke pulled away from Bethany, his hands going up to the hilts of his blades.

Aveline stepped into the chamber, her eyes narrowed as she took in the room swiftly, and behind her was a templar, his helmet balanced at one hip, sporting a shock of red hair and a thick moustache of the same florid hue. “Hawke. I'm utterly unsurprised to find you at the bottom of this.”

Hawke pushed Bethany behind him, his eyes fixed grimly on the templar. “You might want to step outside for a moment, Aveline.”

“Ser Thrask brought me here, actually. He mentioned that there were slavers involved. So is this going to be guard business or not?”

“Depends on whether you're going to arrest me after I kill Ser Thrask.” Hawke shrugged.

Ser Thrask cleared his throat. “Actually, I brought the guard Captain here to correlate my report. A group of templars led by Ser Emrian had sought a lead – seemingly unsubstantiated after all – that the free clinic in Darktown harbored dangerous apostates. It appears that they have met their deaths heroically battling scores of slavers and one slaver apostate mage, who may have been the dangerous apostate in question. The Knight-Commander will be informed, a report will go out to the City Guard, and undoubtedly the Captain of the Guard will set her seal to it.”

“Will she?” Aveline said dryly, though she smiled faintly. “But I certainly don't see any dangerous apostates around here, only a couple of people who spend all their time healing the poor, and three known scoundrels with no magic.”

“Hey!” Isabela protested.

“Anyway, I had better return to the Keep.” Aveline shook her head, turning around. “Maker, all these bodies. Do you know the amount of paperwork that I'm going to have to do? But,” she added, a little more thoughtfully, “At least it gives us a few reasons to investigate the suspected slavers that own this place. Very thoroughly.”

When the Captain had left, Thrask reached out with a gauntleted hand. “Marthana sent word to me once one of the Ferelden patients told her that there was trouble. I came as quickly as I could.”

Warily, Hawke shook his hand. “A friendly templar. I'm surprised. Did you forget to eat your cereal of anger and milk of righteousness this morning?”

Thrask smiled faintly. “You smuggled out a girl named Olivia on one of your runs. She is my daughter. Now she lives in Rivain with her distant aunt, tutored by one of the local seeresses, and she's never been happier. I owe you a debt, serah Hawke.”

“Olivia.” Bethany blinked. “She was your daughter? She saw me on my way to the clinic once, and we had a long talk, and in the end she confessed that she was a mage in hiding. I took her to the clinic. She helped out a few times, learned some healing magic, then she had this long discussion about Rivain with Anders and I never saw her again.” She frowned at Hawke. “What do you do for Athenril again?”

“Not a topic up for discussion,” Hawke told Bethany firmly. “Anders?”

“I knew that Marthana had someone inside the Order. Someone had to be destroying or contaminating the phylacteries.” Anders said cautiously. “Other than that, I can't be sure.”

“If he's Olivia's father then he's all right,” Bethany said, a little reluctantly. “She never told me that he was a templar, but she always spoke very highly of him.”

“Maybe we should have this bonding session in the Hanged Man,” Varric suggested. “I really doubt the slavers are all gone.”

“I have to return to the Gallows and make my report,” Thrask looked soberly over at Anders. “In the meantime, you will have to move your clinic. The templars will investigate it again. Even if you manage to silence the informant.”

XIII.

Lirene pooled money – including a grudging contribution from Hawke – and bought the neighboring terrace house to her shop in Lowtown, ostensibly to expand her business by employing an apothecary. In actual fact, the clinic was set up again there, with a back entrance for the patients to be screened by volunteers.

Unfortunately, the run-in with the templars had only strengthened Bethany's resolve to be stubborn about the entire business, and after a loud argument at home where Mother had even taken her side, Hawke had given it up as a bad job. For now. But at least his sister no longer had to walk into Darktown to get to the damned place.

Anders now lived in the loft of the new clinic, and was still unpacking from a box when Hawke let himself silently into the room. A skylight was partially open to let in the crisp night air. The room had been recently cleaned, but the house was clearly old; a long hairline crack ran in a jagged line down the wall beside the narrow door. A cot had been pulled up under the skylight, and on the opposite side of the wall from the cot was a tiny desk, a three-legged chair, an ancient wardrobe, and a mismatched dresser. A small, chipped figurine of a cat went on the dresser, some books were stacked on the desk, then Anders yelped and dropped his quills and scrolls when he turned around to see Hawke looking curiously at the titles.

“ 'Carrying the Rancher's Heir'? 'Rocky Mountain Proposal'? I knew it,” Hawke said dryly.

Anders reddened even as he scooped papers up and picked up quills. “ _Most_ of the books are about salves and potions! Give me that!”

“I should get Isabela to give you some of her books. Bethany likes them,” Hawke returned the well-thumbed books, if with a wry grin. There had been a row about that before, as well, and Hawke had conceded when Bethany had threatened never to speak to him again.

“She said that you quarrelled with her,” Anders said tentatively, arranging the papers on the desk and slotting the quills into a cracked cup.

“It happens. Normal aspect of older sibling life.” She could never stay angry with him for very long anyway.

“So,” Anders said awkwardly, then he exhaled. “You start, Garrett. Whatever it is that you want to know about me, I'll tell you. I don't want to keep secrets from you, I just didn't know how to bring it up. I wasn't sure how you'd react.”

“You're only a little older than me,” Hawke walked Anders backwards until he had him pinned on the small cot, “And you've already escaped seven times from the Circle, become a Gray Warden, met the Warden-Commander, and navigated the Deep Roads?”

“I think the last three parts were all domino consequences of the first bit,” Anders admitted, pulling Hawke down gratefully on top of him, hugging him tightly. “I'm so sorry about what happened. But if Bethany was taken to the Circle, the templars would have had to do it over my dead body. I wanted to fight, provide a distraction for her to run away, but she was so insistent that you would come for us, she dragged me over to that room to lock us in and wait.”

“Then it's a good thing that one of you had some sense,” Hawke told him dryly. “I have some leads on that Winters informant. Athenril and Varric had been putting their heads together. We'll pay him a visit, and that should be the end of the matter.”

“The templars will still be here, always on the watch,” Anders said, his voice a little shaky. “If you hadn't come-”

“Shh.” Hawke kissed him, slow and confident, cupping his cheeks in his blade-roughened hands as he settled between Anders' spreading thighs. “Even if they ever find you again, I'll be there. Look on the bright side. You're no longer living in Darktown, this room is actually fairly decent, and the templars are none the wiser.”

“I suppose so,” Anders said, if a little doubtfully, but he began to pluck at the catches to Hawke's armor, against his flanks.

“So how about you show me that electricity trick that Isabela was talking about,” Hawke purred invitingly into his ear, “And then afterwards we can talk about how you became a Gray Warden and your time with the Warden-Commander.”

“It'll be my pleasure,” Anders smiled, and rolled them over.

XIV.

“You know what? Just don't bother,” Hawke said, when Varric showed Saemus, Aveline and Ashaad into the suite. Apparently Saemus – or Ashaad, but probably Saemus – had taken Hawke's words to heart the last time, and Ashaad was now wearing a cowl and a cloak. Unfortunately, the jut of his horns meant that the cowl now had weird angles to it, and that, coupled with the qunari's natural size and height, actually accentuated the way the qunari stood out.

“Don't bother with what?” Saemus asked, puzzled, as he sat down at the table, with Ashaad beside him. Only the grim line of Ashaad's mouth could be seen under the cowl, and it was still forbidding.

“Never mind.” Hawke shook his head slowly, as Varric started writing into his journal. “All right, here's a status report. From all our contacts, we've learned that the buyers for this Tome are the Tevinter magisters. There's a group of them in Kirkwall, they arrived sometime after qunari set up camp in the Docks, and they've rented a mansion over at Hightown. They're probably waiting for the right price to be agreed on before making the exchange. Fenris is keeping an eye on the mansion.”

Ashaad grunted. “And the Tome itself?”

“I was getting to that.” Hawke said mildly. “Just to confirm, once you lot have the Tome, you'll leave?”

“The Tome and the thief,” Ashaad folded his arms. “That is the dictate of the Arishok and the Qun.”

“And I'll be paid for finding both?” Hawke glanced at Saemus.

“You'll be paid for both,” Saemus confirmed.

“Great. I'll start the ball rolling, then.”

Aveline shot him a suspicious glance, but she asked, “Do you know who the thief is, Hawke?”

“I'm working on it,” Hawke said glibly. “Keeping my ear on the ground.”

She frowned. “But you know where the Tome is?”

“It's with one of the sailors on the ships that wrecked in the storm. We've narrowed down the prospects, but my contacts are still trying to ascertain where they're hiding. Varric will give you their descriptions. I had a question for the Arishok,” Hawke added. “In the hypothetical that the Tome were to come into my hands, would the Arishok be willing to loan it to me for a couple of weeks? In the interests of bait?”

“Don't start anything drastic without me,” Aveline said, frowning. “I don't know what you're planning, Hawke, but I'm sure that I'm not going to like it.”

“I will speak with the Arishok,” Ashaad said flatly. “But if it would lead to the capture of the original thief, I think that it may be allowed. Is that all?”

“That's all. Send word when you can.”

“I will. _Panahedan_ , Hawke. I do not hope that you die.” Ashaad rose from his seat, and left the room in long strides.

“What does that mean?” Hawke asked out aloud. “Sounds like bad luck to me.”

“It's a qunari phrase of respectful farewell,” Saemus said, passing him a pouch of coin. “They have a most fascinating language. Thank you for your work to date, Hawke. I will mention you to my father-”

“Please don't.” Hawke cut in quickly. Maker only knew what a political presence would bring. More templars, likely. “I'm happy with coin.”

“Very well then,” Saemus smiled, shaking his hand warmly. “I had better return to the Keep. Captain?”

“At your side, Saemus.” Aveline was also on her feet. “Hawke, if you, 'in the hypothetical', decide to attack the Tevinter magisters' mansion and 'forget' to bring me, I will be very cross. Understand?”

“But Fenris wanted to go!”

“I don't care, Hawke. Call me when you're starting whatever it is that you're starting. Maybe I can minimize the fallout,” Aveline retorted, following Saemus out of the suite.

“Isn't it nice when your friends trust you,” Hawke told Varric, who was still busy scribbling. Frowning, the rogue peered at Varric's work. “ 'And our hero henceforth decided to do battle with...' You do know that I'm trying to lie low at present, don't you?”

“But there's such a great story to be told,” Varric protested. “You can't restrain art.”

“I can't, but I _could_ kick its creator's arse,” Hawke said pointedly.

Varric let out a deep sigh, but he placed his papers on the table. “You're killing me, Hawke. Very well. Maybe I'll just write it up as a book or something. I've already got a good title in mind.”

“You do that.”

XV.

“What's he doing here?” Aveline asked, frowning, when Hawke finally walked into the room, trailing Anders behind him. Hawke had rented an apartment that overlooked the entrance to the Tevinter magisters' mansion, and Fenris' contacts had been using it to spy on the comings and goings in the mansion. He'd had to confess to Aveline who the 'thief' was, in the morning, after she strong-armed him into promising that she would be part of the operation on the Tevinter magisters' mansion, and it had taken a lot of talking to get Aveline to calm down and keep Isabela's secret.

“I made the mistake of telling him what I was doing tonight, and then he suddenly became protective,” Hawke said sourly.

Aveline's eyes fell to the hand that Anders had splayed on the small of Hawke's back. “Ah,” she said, somewhat more diplomatically.

“Well, aren't you both cute,” Isabela said archly, clasping her hands together and smirking when Hawke rolled his eyes at her.

At the window, Fenris glanced briefly over at Hawke, ran his eyes coolly and briefly over Anders, then looked back over at the window. “More apostates, Hawke? Not a blood mage again, I hope?”

“A blood mage?” Anders repeated, with a sharp glance at Hawke.

“It's a Dalish thing,” Hawke said evasively, “And before you ask, I didn't sleep with her, all right? Fenris, this is Anders. Anders, this is Fenris, an ex Tevinter magister slave with a remarkable wellspring of hatred for all things sparkly with fireballs.”

“Not all things. I don't hate your sister,” Fenris said shortly, not even bothering to look up from the window. “The magisters are still in there. Waiting. Probably summoning abominations as we speak.”

“Well, aren't you a bright ray of sunshine today, Fenris,” Hawke muttered.

“The deal's definitely tonight, Hawke.” Varric confirmed. “Athenril's contact spotted our two friends discussing it in Darktown. They'll come to the mansion tonight. What's the plan?”

“Aveline, Anders, Fenris and I go in through the front. Isabela climbs up via the lattice on the eastern wall into the mezzanine. You stand watch over here with Bianca. Anyone – or anything comes through that door that isn't us, shoot it.”

“We can do that,” Varric hefted Bianca. “Where's your dog?”

“I think we have enough people here at the party,” Hawke pointed out. “I've left him at home.” Leman might not like it, but what with Bethany usually at the clinic nowadays, with later shifts now that it was in a fairly safer place, Hawke preferred leaving it to keep Mother company rather than have it follow Hawke or Bethany. Besides, even had it been around during the templar raid, it probably wouldn't have done very much by itself.

“That's them, all right,” Isabela murmured from the window, gesturing at Hawke. “Look. Those bastards. The bald one is Tharco. The skinny nervous one is Lannister. And that thing that Lannister's holding has to be the Tome.”

“Places, people, places,” Hawke smiled wolfishly, watching as Lannister and Tharco let themselves into the mansion. “That's our cue.”

Checking for traps, Hawke picked the lock and eased the door open. The lobby of the mansion was empty, and Hawke cast a quick eye around it for pressure plates and tripwires before nodding at the others. “All right,” he murmured, “This is where we'll have to spread out and check the side rooms-”

Aveline had marched right up to the central door, and kicked it open. Beyond it was a foyer, and frozen in a tableau were a group of magisters, two at the foot of the winding stairs and one in more colorful robes on the mezzanine floor. A pair of guardsmen in the overlapping Tevinter scale armor stiffened before the magisters. On the wide marble square before them, an abomination was crushing Tharco's throat, while a pair of shades were dismembering Lannister. Another magister, in the process of ascending the left stairway, had a thick book in his hands.

Aveline had flushed bright with outrage. “City guard! You're all under arrest!”

Hawke groaned to himself and pressed his palm briefly over his face. “Later let's discuss the words 'finesse' and 'strategy', shall we, Aveline?”

“Kill them!” the colorful mage shouted.

“Aveline, handle the demons,” Hawke instructed, pulling out a disorienting grenade from the pouch at his belt. “The rest of us, priority on the magisters.”

“I don't need you to tell me that,” Fenris retorted, the lyrium lines on his flesh glowing bright and ghostly as he hefted his greatsword in his hands, charging into the foyer.

Hawke darted around the shades as Aveline slammed her shield into one and skewered another with her blade, dodging a gout of fire from the magister he was targeting, then a spike of lightning. The guardsman he was facing roared something in the Tevinter tongue and swung at him with a scimitar, but Hawke parried deftly and drew his offhand blade viciously across the guardsman's neck, grinning as warm blood splashed his own throat and jaw.

Frost snaked up his arm, but he grit his teeth and swung around, using his body weight and momentum to bury both his blades into the magister's body. He let out a gurgling cry and collapsed, limp and unmoving, only to abruptly shudder with a hoarse moan and reach, jerkily, for Hawke's neck.

Deftly, Hawke yanked his blades out and beheaded the corpse, glancing up to see that the magister on the balcony had just cut his wrist, the blood gouting from it forming a seething aura around him. The magister with the Tome was at his side, his free hand upraised, chanting something in an alien tongue. To Hawke's left, Fenris had just cleaved the guardsman that he was facing open, and in his follow-through, had impaled the magister through his ribs on the heft of his broadsword. Shaking the body off contemptuously, the elf began grimly ascending the stairs.

Risking a glance behind him, Aveline was shrugging off a blow from an abomination, surrounded by shades, her face set in an expression of calm concentration. Anders seemed to be encased in rock, his staff outstretched, light arcing down it in a dancing leap, and above, the magister's chanting abruptly cut short, dispelled. There was a smoke bomb, then a scream, and the sound of Isabela's mocking laughter, coupled with Fenris' war cry and the dim blue of his lyrium glow through the haze of smoke.

Making a quick mental calculation, Hawke turned around to help Aveline dispose of the summoned creatures. It was never clean or delicate work; every slice brought a spike of foetid stench, and shades didn't seem to fade until one hacked them to pieces. He ripped one up from its hunched shoulder all the way down to its back with both its blades, and ducked back as a shade, lunging towards him, abruptly froze solid. Aveline rammed the ice statue with her shield, shattering it, then whirled around to sweep the clawed arm off an abomination that swiped at her back. A green glyph traced itself behind Aveline, freezing another abomination in place, fading when Hawke darted forward to slice off its bulbous head.

When the last shade faded into a murky, oil stain on the ground, Hawke wiped his blades on Lannister's corpse with a grimace, sheathing them, then turning around to check on Anders, who was busy casting a healing spell on Aveline. Isabela was descending the stairs, the Tome in her hands, and Fenris behind her.

Her face twisting, she marched up to Hawke, her shoulders hunched with wire-tight tension. “You really, truly have a plan?”

“I really, truly do,” Hawke told her soberly.

“You. You!” Isabela let out a deep, ragged sign. “Maker, you're _such_ a bad influence on me, Hawke. Here. Take the damned book.” She thrust the Tome into his hands. “I'm trusting you on this.”

“I'll remember that. Thank you, Isabela.”

“Don't thank me,” Isabela moaned. “I'm just going to be tempted to steal it back from you and run off to Rivain. Maker, but I might have done that anyway if Fenris wasn't looking at me with his puppy eyes.”

“I don't have puppy eyes,” Fenris said flatly, from behind Isabela.

Isabela ignored him. “I need a drink. Now what? Have you worked out the rest of your plan yet?”

Hawke told her.

Slowly, Isabela grinned. “That's not half bad. It might even work. I like it.”

“I know. I'm that good.” Hawke admitted.

“It's a gamble,” Anders said doubtfully. “I hope that you know what you're doing.”

“I know what I'll have to tell Saemus, then,” Aveline pursed her lips. “And I can't believe that I'm actually aiding and abetting a criminal. You _are_ a bad influence, Hawke.”

“It's a cross that I bear.”

XVI.

“Yes,” Ashaad ran the thick fingers of his big hand reverently over the runed cover of the book. “This is the Tome of Koslun. Impressive, Hawke.”

The cowl and cape were cut bigger, this time, and a storm gray in hue. The effect of the awkward clothes rather made Ashaad look like a gigantic, malformed seagull, and Hawke wondered whether he'd have to take Saemus aside later and explain things to him. Slowly.

“So what did the Arishok say about my request?”

“That if it would aid you in catching the thief, you will have the loan of the Tome for two weeks.” Ashaad passed the heavy book back to Hawke. “But should you lose it in the meantime, or if it is damaged or destroyed, you will bear the consequences.”

“All right.” That was... encouraging. In a guillotine way. “Thank him for me.”

“It was not a favor but a responsibility.” Ashaad corrected, folding his arms. “As to your latest request, I think it... reasonable. You may send word either through Saemus or through the compound at the Docks when you are ready.”

“Good.” Hawke folded the book back into a heavy velvet cloth that Fenris had provided from his mansion. “If all goes well, give or take a couple of weeks and all of you can head back to Par Vollen.”

“I'll miss you,” Saemus said tentatively, to Ashaad, and Aveline arched an eyebrow even as Varric coughed.

“Your place is here, _kadan_ ,” Ashaad replied, “Mine lies at the Arishok's left hand. He must return to Par Vollen to present the Tome and the thief to the Ariqun and the Arigena to regain his rightful place beside them in the triumvirate.”

“I know,” Saemus murmured. “I wish... never mind.”

“Let's not have this conversation in front of me,” Hawke suggested, pulling a face. “I'm beginning to think bad thoughts.”

“Shut up, Hawke.” Aveline said severely.

XVII.

Hawke looked up when the door to the loft opened, but it was only Bethany, balancing a tray of water, a vial with dubiously colored fluid, a tray of biscuits and some clean folded cloth. She marched over and placed the tray on the table, then flopped down beside him on the cot, her arms folded. “You can drop that fake pathetic expression, big brother. I know you're not really that seriously injured. Anders is attending to the patients who really do need healing.”

“My own sister,” Hawke said mournfully, but he grinned impishly at her. Anders had removed the spike from his left thigh, cleaned and bandaged the wound, but with barb traps and possible poison tips it was usually better not to treat it with healing magic in case the infection was sealed inside one's flesh and festered.

“You'd think that you were dying, from the fuss that he was making when you showed up,” Bethany scowled. “ 'Why didn't you tell me that you were going to do something so foolhardy', indeed. You do this sort of thing all the time. Don't try to hide it. What was it this time? A brawl in the tunnels? As yet unnamed Athenril business? Helping Aveline?”

“Getting rid of some big-mouthed Winters mercenaries, actually.” It had been in the heat of battle, and he hadn't noticed the pressure plate when he'd ducked around his target for a backstab. “They won't trouble us or the templars any longer.”

“And it wouldn't have been difficult for you to get it treated on the spot, if Varric was with you. He knows some first aid.” Bethany shot her brother a sidelong glance. “This isn't a really good way to get attention, big brother.”

“I didn't purposefully step on the trap,” Hawke retorted. “But since I did, why shouldn't I get expert help?”

Bethany snorted, glancing at the book that Hawke had been reading when she had walked into the room. “ 'Truth and Dare'. Huh. This is one of his horrible books. I read one of them once and threw up in my mouth a little. Never again.”

“You should burn them when he isn't looking,” Hawke turned a page. “They give him all these strange preconceptions about how relationships work.”

“I don't think any sort of preconception would apply to a relationship with you, big brother,” Bethany said dryly, leaning her weight against his flank and resting her cheek on his shoulder. “I miss Carver, but he's gone, and he'll never come back. It's nice to have another brother again. And a sweet, gentle one this time.”

“There's so much that's wrong with those last two statements that I don't know where to start,” Hawke said, blinking.

“That's how it works, doesn't it?” Bethany asked, with a grin. “Anyone you end up with will become my brother. Or sister. Anyway, he obviously adores you. It's cute.”

“This sort of lends a heavy note of finality to the entire business,” Hawke pointed out with a grimace. “Try not to hold on to that thought.”

“Mother likes him too,” Bethany said, with the air of a card shark turning up a trump.

“What? When did Mother factor into this?”

“She comes by the clinic sometimes to help out?”

“I never heard about that!”

“Because we knew you'd react badly? Relax. You were the one who helped set up how the security in this new clinic is run, you know that it works.” Bethany squeezed his hand. “It's better than having her moping around the house all day, sniping with Uncle Gamlen.”

“I suppose so.” The clinic was far cleaner than Gamlen's place, anyway. “I still don't like it.”

“You don't like lots of things,” Bethany said dismissively. “So when are you going to do anything 'interesting'? I'm rusting.”

“Never.”

“Spoilsport.” Bethany let out a deep sigh. “Pity. You know that elf friend of yours, the one with the big sword and all those lyrium tattoos? He's really handsome.”

Hawke made a choking noise.

XVIII.

“We've got the word,” Athenril said, when Hawke entered the Docks office. “Castillon's in Kirkwall.”

“About bloody time.” Hawke settled into a chair facing Athenril's militantly organised desk. “He's met up with Liam?” Liam was their most trusted fence, a skilled one with many contacts across Thedas. He had been the one to set up a line to Hayder, and hence onwards to Castillon – not that Liam knew the entirety of what they were purporting to sell.

“No. Hayder did. We've got a location for the exchange – and an advance.” Athenril patted her fingers lovingly over a small box on her desk. “Fifty-two sovereigns. Beautiful. And you've said that Saemus is going to match it coin by coin? You're getting very good at this, Hawke.”

“Any problems so far?”

“I'll have to go with you to the exchange,” Athenril said, with a small sigh. “I don't usually handle front line work any longer, Hawke. Especially this sort. But the sale's been set up under my sigil, so he'll be suspicious if I wasn't there. This does mean however that I won't appreciate you bringing your guard Captain friend.”

“Appreciate it or not, she's going to have to be there. You'll learn to like her if things go wrong.”

“No doubt,” Athenril said dryly. “It's a funny world, Hawke. This is the first time I've ever pulled a fast one on a clean deal that didn't involve slaves. And all in the name of the better good?”

“The better good being no more qunari and a hefty payment.”

“I'm more interested in the latter. But you have me there.” Athenril exhaled gently. “Still, this might backfire on us in the future if the word ever gets out. Our business works on trust. If others hear that we stabbed someone in the back on a clean deal, that's going to close a lot of doors.”

“Or open them.” Hawke smirked. “It all depends on the story that gets out, and we both know a good story-teller.”

“I recognise that.” Athenril stroked the chest of coin again. “If we pull this off, I'm thinking about branching out. Have a few more offices along the coast cities in Thedas. We'll operate from Kirkwall, but we can expand our base of operations.”

“Sounds good to me,” Hawke nodded. “Always good to go international.”

“Assuming that we live to enjoy the profits. You're making some powerful enemies. Enough for the both of us.”

“Makes life interesting, Athenril.”

She snorted. “Remember, at the exchange, I'm meant to be running the show. If I really have to, I'll introduce you as my business partner, but if you start being your usual smartass self the mark might get spooked. So keep your mouth shut.”

“That's the second time a friend of mine has told me that this month,” Hawke said mournfully. “It's hurtful.”

“You'll get over it.”

XIX.

Hawke was feeling a little exposed, even with Athenril by his side and her usual complement of archers behind her. They were at the agreed meeting place, a private dock, and the lanterns set into the grimy walls painted deep shadows across the crates and barrels in the adjoining warehouse that opened out to the ship.

Athenril was holding the wrapped Tome in her hands, her expression carefully blank as Hayder and a pair of thugs marched up towards them, stopping at a respectful distance with a heavy chest and opening it to reveal rather more coin than Hawke had ever seen in one place.

“Check it,” Athenril told one of her archers curtly, and the elf nodded respectfully, stepping forward to sift through the coin.

“I heard that Athenril of Kirkwall had a human partner now,” Hayder said, in his thick Antivan accent, glancing at Hawke thoughtfully. “Most curious.”

“You need _shemlen_ to cut some deals around here,” Athenril shrugged. “Residual prejudices. We both get along and he hasn't yet stabbed me in the back. It's been a good partnership so far.”

Hayder nodded slowly. “And the relics business is good to you?”

“You know our credentials, Hayder.” Athenril said flatly, looking bored. “We've fenced everything from old blades etched with the blood of kings to high dragon teeth and the bone wands of Rivaini seers. You want something, we can get something. If the money's right.”

“And the Tome in your hands?”

“We have ears everywhere in Kirkwall. It was getting sold, we thought that we could get a better price, so I arranged for it to fall into my hands.”

“And quite thorough an arrangement it was,” Hayder smiled thinly. “The Tevinter magisters may be concerned about it.”

“If they were, they would have placed a better bid over Castillon. Where is he, anyway? I was interested in discussing further business,” Athenril said, when Hayder frowned at her. “I'm thinking of expanding, and I may need a few contacts in Antiva. I might even be willing to lower my price a little on this book if Castillon can make it worth my while.”

“Castillon will-”

“I'm not interested in talking to a lackey,” Athenril interrupted flatly. “Well?”

Hayden frowned at the chest of coins. “How much would our... cooperation be worth to you?”

“Perhaps the advance would be enough. Perhaps the advance and half of this coin. It depends on how sweet the deal is.” Athenril shrugged. “But I prefer to do business face to face.”

Hayder glanced back down at the chest, then at the Tome. “Wait here.”

“The coin is good,” the archer said, straightening from the chest and returning to Athenril's side.

Hawke shifted his weight, letting out the breath that he had been holding, as Hayder walked back up the stairs into a back room, nodding at the guards that lined the walkway. Eventually, he returned, and his cocky attitude seemed to be gone, replaced by a servile posture. Before him strode a tall, broad-shouldered man with cold, almost reptilian eyes, dressed in richly plated leather armor and embroidered gloves.

“Messere Athenril.” Castillon said, in a measured, emotionless tone. “It is always a pleasure to meet an ambitious elf.”

“Should I take offence?” Athenril replied dryly, though she shook his hand firmly.

“No. It is an observation. Elves are viewed a little differently in Antiva. Certain of them have risen to be quite powerful. Particularly in the Crows.” Castillon inclined his head. “I hear that you have a business proposition. But first, give me the Tome.”

“You'll get it when we agree on a final price,” Athenril ignored Castillon's outstretched hand, passing the Tome to Hawke.

Hawke unwrapped the book, showing Castillon the cover. When he made as if to undo the catch, Castillon held up a hand. “Enough. That is indeed the Tome of Koslun.”

“And the sooner you can get it off my hands, the better. I don't intend to make enemies of the qunari. Arranging for it to be... acquired... from Par Vollen must have been quite a feat.”

“I employed a specialist who had some experience in acquiring such products.” Castillon said dismissively. “I am interested in locating her. Should you be able to, I will of course view a trade alliance more favorably.”

“Finding people is the speciality of my partner here.” Athenril nodded at Hawke. “Hawke?”

“I'll need the usual. A name, a description. If you have a picture or a sketch, that helps as well. Habits, usual occupation, as much detail as you can give me.” Hawke said, in his best, clipped tone. “Did she plan the theft herself? It can't have been easy to get in and out of Par Vollen with something like this. If she's a thief at that level, it won't be cheap to find her.”

“The resources, the manpower, the map and the planning were from me. I had a buyer in Tevinter who expressed a considerable interest in the book, to cement trade ties,” Castillon said, a little impatiently. “But the nerve and the subtlety required were from her. Had the storm not occurred, the Tome would have long been mine, and I would not have had to pay the two of you good coin to take back something that should already been in my hands all along!”

“I was just asking,” Hawke said mildly, “No need to bite my head off.”

“I'll give you a description.” Castillon said flatly, stalking back over to gesture at Hayder. “Take your blasted coin and give me the Tome. We can work out the details afterwards.”

“We will,” Hawke agreed blandly, “Once you take up the matter of actual title with the original owners.”

“What?”

Hawke had to give it to the qunari – they really did know how to make an entrance. A side door to his left slammed off its rusted hinges, and four heavily armed qunari filed in, their black armor pained to a dark sheen, their pale skin painted with lines of red. Behind them was the biggest qunari Hawke had ever seen, his black horns arching high behind his skull and ringed with etched gold, his plated armor crimson domes over his massive shoulders. Beside him, Ashaad looked small, and Aveline seemed positively tiny.

“The true thief,” the Arishok rumbled, fixing Castillon with a cold stare. “You will return to Par Vollen with us, and submit to the Qun.”

“Treachery!” Castillon snarled, backing away and drawing his blade, only to gasp and drop it as a throwing dagger sank into his arm, between his gauntlet and his shoulder guards. In the next instant, the qunari guards had grabbed Castillon roughly by his shoulder, pressing a bared blade to his throat.

“You might want to tell your men to stand down,” Hawke suggested, flipping another throwing dagger up into the air between his hands, and plucking it deftly as it tumbled.

Castillon stared at him, wild-eyed, then he shouted something in Antivan, and Hayder and the other guards slowly put down their weapons.

“Take him away,” the Arishok said, with a dismissive wave. “As to the rest of these _bas_ , I care not.”

“The guard's outside. We'll put them all under arrest.” Aveline said, watching as Hawke handed the Tome to the Arishok. “Good work, Hawke. Oh, and I'm confiscating that chest over there as evidence.”

“ _Aveline!_ ”

“Only fooling you. You need that once in a while.” Aveline smirked, turning to bark orders at the guards filing into the warehouse, even as Athenril and her archers hastily secured and closed the chest of coin.

When Hayder and the others had cleared out, Hawke turned to the Arishok and Ashaad. “Leaving on the morning tide? I'm sure the Viscount will happily give all of you a ship.”

The Arishok swept a cold eye over him. “Despite my... considerable reservations in your kind, Ashaad has proven me wrong. You are indeed _basalit-an_ , serah Hawke. I had not thought to look beyond the blade at the hand that wielded it.”

“I have one favor to ask,” Hawke ventured. “When you actually send word to the Viscount, leave me out of it. If you want to give any credit, leave it to Saemus Dumar. He was the one who engaged me to do all of this, anyway.”

The Arishok looked at him thoughtfully, then at Ashaad, and back again. “So shall it be. _Panahedan_ , Hawke. I do not hope that you die.”

“I really hate it when they say that,” Hawke told Athenril, once they were alone.

“You can cry into your chests of newfound wealth,” Athenril retorted. “Let's get back to the office and split this.”

“Music to my ears.”

XX.

“... and so Isabela took possession of the ship that Castillon left behind, Saemus got Mother's petition for the return of the Amell estates to her name signed, and Athenril and I will be using the money to outfit some fast ships of our own.”

Anders squirmed until Hawke was comfortably sprawled on top of him. Skin to skin, for a mage, Anders was lean almost to the point of being skinny, and he had scars on him that any warrior would be glad to sport, all sleek lines of sensitive muscle that twitched when he traced scar tissue. “A fleet?”

“Look at all the coin that we get from the underground highway. If we didn't have to subcontract a part to unreliable captains, we could make more overall. Lots of mages in Thedas looking to get to Rivain or Tevinter. They pay us partially in lyrium, we can on-sell that back to the Orders. And we have other operations as well, of course.”

“So you got the qunari out of Kirkwall, established Saemus firmly as the Viscount's successor, retrieved your estate for no cost and expanded your business enterprise, all within a few months,” Anders said wryly. “Remarkable.”

“I know.”

“It all seems so... effortless.”

“Why, what did you want me to do?” Hawke asked, with feigned hurt. “Battle the Arishok in single-combat? Slay a High Dragon?”

“Strangely enough, both of those are in Varric's draft of his latest story,” Anders noted. “He gave me a copy the other day.”

“Apparently, improbable plot elements are good selling points for stories. I'll settle for straightforward with a happy ending.”

Anders laughed. “And you've moved all these things into my place? Is something wrong with your Hightown mansion?”

“It's Mother's mansion. Also, the neighbors are weird. There's this guy who likes to walk around naked. Very strange.” Hawke grimaced. “And this place is closer to my usual office. Why, did I have to ask first?” he added, with a mischievous grin.

“It's the usual procedure, isn't it?” A hand stroked playfully down his spine, making Hawke arch into his touch, “Not like I could ever say 'no' to you even if you did, love.”

“Good to know,” Hawke purred, leaning down to close the distance between their lips, the slant of the pale light from the clear, infinite sky above drawn soft and luminous over their entwined fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
